


In The Way They Should Go - A Coats & Customs Interlude

by imaginary_golux



Series: Coats and Customs 'verse [11]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Kidfic, M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 29,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo and Thorin have acquired children.  This will definitely end well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home Again, Home Again

Bilbo sighs in contentment at the sight of the Blue Mountains, cloud-topped and majestic, across the broad expanse of the Shire. “There it is, lad,” he tells young Thrain. “Home! And I shall be glad to reach it, I assure you.”

Thorin grins at his husband. “And so shall I – though I must congratulate you, Bilbo.”

“On what?” Bilbo asks.

“Why, you have left Belegost and not encountered any evil artifacts whatsoever!” Thorin explains, and Bilbo sputters in mock indignation as their guards break into laughter. Young Thrain laughs along, though he looks a bit confused, and Thorin tells his great-nephew, “I am sure Ori will be glad to tell you _all_ the tales of my husband’s adventures.”

Bilbo scrubs a hand over his face in resignation. “Must you teach the lad about that already?”

“It is history, is it not? And he should learn the lengths to which a good ruler will go for his people. There are few better examples than yourself, my dear one.”

Young Thrain smiles. Bilbo has had a little trouble adjusting to young Thrain’s quiet nature – he takes strongly after Mim, and rarely speaks until he has thought out his words completely. It’s a good trait for a king, but Bilbo is a hobbit, and hobbits are used to conversation.

Bilbo gestures to the road ahead of them to distract his companions before Ori breaks into one of the _Sagas_. “It’ll be another week or so at this pace,” he says, “especially since we’ll be stopping to speak to the Thains when we reach Hobbiton. It’ll be only polite to let them know we’re back. And they can send a mirror-message up to Belegost so Balin and Dis can get everything ready to welcome us.”

“Hobbit food,” Dwalin says joyfully. “Oh, I have missed the cooking of the Shire!”

Gimli nods enthusiastically. “Aye, though, young lord, avoid their ale. ‘Tis dangerous stuff.” The other dwarves agree enthusiastically while Bilbo laughs at all of them.

*

The Thains welcome the little party with food and drink and warm embraces, as the dwarves expected, but Isengrim, Gerontius’ successor as the Thain of the Tooks, drew Bilbo aside quietly as the other Thains made the dwarves welcome.

“Bilbo, I have grave news.”

Bilbo glances around at the other Thains, and his brow furrows. “Where is Drogo? If there is bad news, should not he be the one to inform me?”

Isengrim winces. “Drogo…is dead.”

“ _What_?” Thorin whirls at the sound of his husband’s shout, and Bilbo waves him off, hissing his questions so as not to disturb the party. “How did he die, and when?”

Isengrim looks bleak. “A few months ago, in the summer. He and Primula went boating – said they’d be back by dinner, and left little Frodo with the Brandybucks for the afternoon. There was a squall…we found the boat, but nothing else.”

“By the Valar,” Bilbo breathes. “My poor cousin…”

Isengrim nods. “The Brandybucks have been looking after the lad, but it’s not proper to have a Thain raised in another county. He’ll come out all Brandybuck instead of Baggins. You’re not the closest relative…but you could be Thain Regent until the lad is grown. Goodness knows you know how.”

Bilbo sighs. “So I can, and so I will. Oh, dash it all! Drogo was a good lad, and I shall miss him terribly!”

Isengrim pats Bilbo comfortingly on the shoulder. “We will all miss him.” He heaves a great sigh and then shakes himself, putting on his Thainship again like the cloak it is. “Young Frodo is at Bag End, as it happens – I thought it would be easiest for you to pick him up from there, and the Gamgees were more than happy to watch him for a day or two.”

“I shall collect him immediately,” Bilbo promises, and turns to go.

*

Bilbo comes to Belegost with a tiny hobbit held before him on the saddle, and Dis greets him with a solemn face. “They sent word as soon as it happened,” she tells Bilbo in an undertone as the ponies are unloaded. “We figured you’d have him.” She looks down at the child in Bilbo’s arms and musters a smile. “Hullo, my little lad. I’m your…let me see now, what am I to you?”

Bilbo considers it. “I think it had better be Grandma,” he says after a while, “because that will be what Thrain will call you, and I don’t want to confuse them unduly.” He smiles down at Frodo, who is looking wide-eyed at the dwarves swarming around them. “So this is Grandma Dis, and Thorin and I shall be your Uncles, since second cousin twice removed is a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it, little one!”

*

‘Grandma Dis,’ thankfully, is perfectly willing to look after both children for an evening while Thorin and Bilbo get their feet under them. One child – a dwarf child at that, twenty-three and broad-shouldered already – they had been ready to deal with. But a second, a wide-eyed five-year-old with his parents’ death fresh in his mind…well, that is another problem entirely.

Thorin curls himself around his husband in their wide bed, and Bilbo tucks his head under Thorin’s chin and sighs into his beard. For a long time they simply hold each other, taking comfort as always in the love which sustains them. Then Bilbo raises his head a little.

“I shall have to spend quite a lot of time in the Shire until Frodo is grown,” he says, and Thorin nods reluctantly.

“The boy must know his heritage, and he cannot learn it here.” He shrugs. “It will not hurt for Thrain to learn more of hobbits, you know. And Belegost will certainly not burn down in your absence – Balin and Dis have more than proven that they are capable of looking after it. Thrain and I shall spend at least some of the time with you. I have no taste for being separated from you for so long.”

Bilbo smiles. “Oh, good. I shall be able to show you how Bag End _ought_ to look, without dust sheets over everything or dwarves bleeding all over the furniture!”

Thorin laughs and kisses his husband. “Impertinent wretch,” he mutters, and Bilbo finally laughs, which is what Thorin has been hoping for.


	2. Under the Mountain

Thrain is not quite sure what to make of Belegost. It is smaller than Moria, he thinks, but so much louder and more crowded, with hobbits and dwobbits everywhere. He is not used to so many _children_ , so much laughter and boisterous noise. Moria is a solemn place, a dwarven place, since all the dwarves of Moria know that they are reclaiming their first kingdom, and treat it with the proper courtesy. Even the babies seem to cry more quietly – though perhaps that is simply little Durin, who is an odd baby anyhow, what with being a reincarnated hero.

Thrain is also not quite sure what to make of little Frodo. The child is so quiet, and so small, and frankly adorable; and for a little while Thrain is slightly worried that his new guardians will forget about Thrain in the flurry of dealing with this new and unexpected ward. But Thorin does not forget, and especially not about kin; and Bilbo apparently has the capacity to remember and care about any number of people; and so Thrain finds himself, will-he or nill-he, drawn into this strange little family, fully a part of it before he is quite sure he wants to be.

It is nothing like his family at home. Oh, there are some superficial similarities: Papa and Uncle Thorin both spend large amounts of time in their throne rooms, listening to complaints and giving commands and overseeing the kingdom; Mama and Uncle Bilbo both spend time among the common folk, listening more than they talk and learning everything there is to know about the people who make the food and clothing and simple tools which everyone else needs to do their jobs; little Durin and Frodo are both young and wide-eyed and eager to learn _everything_ , and kind of adorable really.

But Uncle Thorin is really not much like Papa. He is louder and broader and gruffer, even when he is in private and does not have to be a King. Uncle Bilbo is not much like Mama, either – even leaving aside the fact that he is male and a hobbit. He talks more, and moves faster, always doing something, while Mama is usually content to sit quietly in a corner and knit and let people come to her. (When she is in the smithy, she does not want visitors, of course; and no one interrupts a dwarf at her craft. But knitting, she has explained to Thrain, is something to do with her hands, and she enjoys it even if it is not smithing.) And little Frodo is not Durin reborn, not an ancient hero come back to his people and kingdom, but just a lost little boy with wide blue eyes who clings to Bilbo as though afraid that Bilbo will vanish like his parents.

Thrain thinks he likes Frodo, actually, since Frodo is just as lost as Thrain is, and will sit quietly and watch Thrain practice his Khuzdul runes and sometimes try to draw them himself with the ashes on the hearthstone. It’s sort of nice to have such a little person to look after. Thrain was never asked to look after Durin – there was never any shortage of nursemaids if Mama was busy – but sometimes Thorin and Bilbo ask him to keep an eye on Frodo for a few minutes while they go do something, and Frodo will come over and sit next to Thrain and watch Thrain write or braid or carve, and ask questions in his quiet little voice. It’s nice.

Still, it’s a little lonely in Belegost, where everyone is new to him, and Thrain finds himself wandering the corridors, watching the laughing packs of dwobbits go by and wondering if any of them would like a friend. They bow to him when they see him, murmur, “Prince Thrain,” and go on with their play. Thrain is not quite sure what they would do if he asked to join them, and not sure that it fits his status to do so. He would ask Uncle Thorin, he will eventually, but it’s not an easy question really.

He’s been in Belegost three months when he meets Bissem. He’s hungry, and it’s nowhere near dinner-time, and Uncle Thorin and Uncle Bilbo are in court and Grandma Dis is watching Frodo, so Thrain wanders down to the Royal Kitchens to see if Mister Bombur has anything available for snacking. Mister Bombur is Uncle Frerin’s father-in-law, and Uncle Frerin is the King of Erebor. It’s all a bit complicated.

Bissem is sitting at a little table in the corner of the kitchens, peeling apples with a contented look on his face. Mister Bombur is directing the other cooks with a sort of fierce concentration, and Thrain decides that disturbing Mister Bombur might be a little uncalled for, and goes over to the corner table. Bissem looks up and smiles.

“Prince Thrain,” he says, and gives a little seated bow.

“May I sit?” Thrain asks, and takes a seat when Bissem nods. Bissem hands him an apple, and Thrain eats it, watching the controlled chaos of the kitchen curiously. After the apple is gone, he realizes how rude he’s being. “Might I know your name?”

“Bissem son of Bombur,” Bissem replies, and Thrain smiles a little.

“You are my great-uncle’s brother-in-law,” he says after a minute’s thought.

Bissem smiles even more broadly. “Practically cousins, then,” he says, and Thrain laughs aloud.

Bissem is as quiet as Thrain is, but he has a sharp sense of humor which never fails to make Thrain laugh, and he has his father’s love of feeding people. Bombur and Senna get used to Thrain and Bissem following each other around, ducking in and out of the kitchens and Bombur’s apartments and the Royal Apartments, sticking their noses into everything and sitting quietly watching the adults work in the smithies or the weaving rooms or anywhere else they can find an out-of-the-way spot. Thorin quite approves, actually: Bissem is level-headed and a member of a good family with ties to the throne, and as long as Thrain shows up for all of his lessons on time, and for family dinners at least half the time, Thorin is glad he has a friend.

Thrain is glad that Uncle Thorin approves, of course, but in his own quiet way Thrain has decided that Bissem is _his_ friend, and even if Uncle Thorin ever tells him to break off the friendship, Thrain will not do so. Thrain will be a king one day, and kings make decisions and do not back down from them. Thrain has decided to be friends with Bissem, and that is the end of the matter.

*

Frodo is a little scared of Belegost. It’s big and noisy, but so is Brandybuck Hall, so that’s not it. It’s underground, but so is every smial in the Shire, so that can’t be it either. Maybe it’s the beards, beards everywhere hiding peoples’ faces so he can’t see whether they’re smiling or frowning. Maybe it’s that Uncle Bilbo leaves him with Grandma Dis every day and goes away to do Prince Consort things with a wry, resigned smile, and even though he promises to come back, well, Mama and Papa promised to come back too.

It’s Grandma Dis who figures out what’s wrong first, and one day when Uncle Bilbo leaves Frodo with Grandma Dis and goes off down the stone halls, she sits Frodo down and says, “When I was young – not as young as you are, child, but young for a dwarf – my father went off to war.”

Frodo stares up at her wide-eyed. He has only the faintest idea what ‘war’ is, but it’s big and bad and makes people unhappy, so Grandma Dis’ papa going to war must have been bad. Grandma Dis takes a deep breath. “He was gone for a long time, him and everyone who went with him, and after a while we didn’t even get messages back to tell us what was going on – or if we did, my grandfather never told me about them. So I worried and worried and couldn’t do anything. And when he came back, he was hurt, and he was never the same again.” She gathers Frodo up in her arms and he tucks his head under her chin, in the soothing warmth of her beard.

“But your Uncle Bilbo isn’t going anywhere dangerous, my lad, and even if he was, your Uncle Thorin would die to protect him, and so would everyone in Belegost. Even me. _Especially_ me. Your Uncle Bilbo is safer than a well-braced tunnel, my lad, and I shall never let anything happen to him or to you. I promise.”

Grandma Dis always keeps her promises.

After that, Belegost is a little less scary, especially after Grandma Dis has a bit of a talk with Uncle Bilbo that night, and the next day Uncle Bilbo brings Frodo with him down to the throne room for the morning. Prince Consort things are _boring_ , Frodo learns, but they are not even a little bit dangerous.


	3. Letters I

My dearest Legolas,

It seems odd that so much should have changed in the few months since last I stood beside you in the white city of Minas Tirith; but change has come to Belegost indeed. Fear not: I am still to guide and guard the caravans in the summer, and I shall be in Dale for some time, that we might spend our days together.

Young Prince Thrain has come with us from Gondor, to take the throne when King Thorin can no longer hold it; but I know you knew that. The interesting news is that Prince Bilbo has also acquired a ward! Young Frodo, son of Drogo Baggins, has come to stay with us; his parents were killed in a boating accident (see! Boats are foolishness!) and young Frodo must be trained to be Thain Baggins when he is grown.

He is very small, as young hobbits are (he is only five years old!), and so scared of everything; but I suppose that comes of being young and in a strange place. He follows Prince Bilbo around like a duckling. It’s quite adorable, really, though everyone here would be happier if it was not necessary – Prince Bilbo was fond of his cousin, and Drogo’s death is much regretted.

There is little enough else different in Belegost, though adding two new princes – or as near to princes as makes no difference – has given the Guard fits, especially as young Frodo is so tiny and easily mislaid. Thankfully, he seems inclined to stay near Prince Bilbo or young Prince Thrain, but Dwalin is already making up lists of bodyguards for him once he is older and more adventurous. Prince Bilbo will throw a fit when he finds out – apparently the Thains do not have bodyguards, because there is nothing worth guarding against in the Shire – but I think Dwalin will win that argument.

Come to think of it, perhaps there will be dwobbits among Frodo’s guards. Some of them have begun to practice with the recruits, though of course they will not come of age for almost twenty years – still, they mature more swiftly than we dwarves do, and some of them appear to have inherited the hobbit gift for marksmanship, which will be a great boon to the Guard.

I have been studying the maps which King Aragorn so generously gave to us – I will bring them with me to Dale, of course – and the notations do appear to indicate that there is ore worth mining beneath the trees of the White Mountains. We shall have to be careful not to disturb the forests, of course; but that is doable, and I shall not mind the extra work so long as I shall have you to return to at the end of every day.

I have a few things which I know I will be bringing with me in the spring, but is there anything you would particularly enjoy which I might make for you? I have been experimenting with filigree, and my father has found a particularly fine vein of emerald.

The months will be too long before I see you again, my dearest love; write to me soon, and tell me your thoughts of our someday-city, and your forests, and everything; for reading your words is the best balm for my loneliness which I can imagine.

With all my love,

Gimli

*

_My beloved Gimli,_

_It is so good to hear from you; indeed, the days since last I saw you have been long, and in these colder months when there is little enough to do outside my father’s halls, I cannot help but think of you often and wish for your company._

_I am sorry to hear of young Frodo’s misfortune, but surely he could find no better protector and teacher than Prince Bilbo. I am sure he will grow to be a good Thain, with such a mentor; and perhaps he will find friends among the people of Belegost, and forge stronger ties between the Shire and the mountain. Still, it is a hard thing to lose a parent, much less both at once, and I send him my good wishes, if you would be so kind as to pass them along._

_Things are…odd here in the Greenwood. There is a tension I mislike in the court. Some of those who speak to me are my friends of old, but others who have often overlooked me now come to ask me questions with layers I cannot see. I do not like it, and I hope with all my heart that my worst suspicions are nothing but fancy and moonshine._

_My father is…also odd. I know he does not like our partnership, my heart, and there is little enough I can do about that, for I should not abandon you though all the forces of Darkness stood between us. But it seems to me that he has begun to turn his anger onto strange targets. Indeed, he has said some things which make me think that were I not the only child of his blood, I should no longer be a prince. It may yet come to that, for my cousin Argonel is much more of my father’s mind in many things, and though he has not my father’s blood in him, being my mother’s brother’s son, still he is noble and well-liked._

_Well, I shall climb that tree when I come to it, and not fear it until then. It is not as though I am not planning to leave the Greenwood at some point anyhow, and live with you in a forest over a mine, and meet in the twilight to speak of our days. To tell the truth, thinking of that future is all that keeps me silent some days when the confinement of snow has put so many people on edge that I have been dealing with other peoples’ arguments all day._

_Does Belegost grow more fractious in the winter, or does being underground all the time anyhow mean that dwarves do not notice the extra confinement? If the latter case is true, I shall become quite jealous of you, my heart._

_I look forward to poring over maps with you this summer, and perhaps, if you are amenable and free for a few days, we might take a short trip into the Greenwood? Not to the court, of course – I would not inflict my father’s hatred upon you – but there are a few places far from court and quite secluded, and I would like to show you my forest properly, without princes looking over our shoulders._

_As to your question of gifts – my dearest, this is a dwarven thing, is it not, to give your beloved as many handmade gifts as possible? I seem to recall Prince Bilbo speaking of something of the sort, and laughing about King Thorin wishing to drape him in twenty pounds of gold, but now I wish I had paid more attention. Elves do not usually show their possessiveness quite so obviously._

_I rather like it._

_I shall be glad and proud to wear anything which comes from your hands, my love. I quite like hair-ornaments, as you know; perhaps something with the new emeralds? Or rubies, which remind me of my dear Gimli’s beard._

_The months till summer go too slowly; until your next letter, I remain, as always,_

_Your Legolas_


	4. Bag End

Frodo is six, and he and Uncle Bilbo are going to Bag End for the _whole_ summer. It’s very exciting for a six-year-old. There’s always been a bit of mystery to Bag End, for Frodo – his father never lived there, and it was always shut up and dark, and while Frodo was at Brandy Hall the little Brandybucks used to dare each other to go up and look into the shuttered windows or try the locked door. Everyone knew that Bilbo Baggins had lived there, before he went off to be a prince of dwarves, and people always talked about Bilbo in tones of awe and bewilderment, so Frodo grew up knowing that Bag End must be very special indeed. The few days Frodo spent there waiting for Uncle Bilbo are a bit of a blur, though – he was very tired, and grieving, and remembers little but Mrs. Gamgee bringing him meals and herding him to the bathing room and back.

Bag End is large and empty in a way few hobbit holes are. Oh, it’s got plenty of _stuff_ in it, and Frodo amuses himself for days running about discovering what’s in each room, peering under dust sheets and climbing up on overstuffed chairs and under side tables, gazing at mathoms on the shelves and paintings on the walls. But hobbit holes are meant to have _people_ in them. Frodo used to live with Papa and Mama and Aunt Gilly and Uncle Posco and Ponto and Porto and Peony and Uncle Falco and Aunt Clementine and Poppy, all crammed into Baggins Hall, because hobbits are meant to live together and neither Papa nor Mama could bear the thought of moving into empty Bag End. Now Frodo can see why. It’s just him and Uncle Bilbo most of the time, except when Uncle Thorin and Thrain come down for a week now and then, and they rattle around like two spoons in a big drawer, making more noise than they need to just so they can hear each other.

During the day they aren’t in Bag End much. They walk all over the Shire together, talking to everyone they meet, and Frodo is introduced to Bolgers and Boffins, Chubbs and Grubbs and Proudfeet, Bracegirdles and Burrows and Banks and Tooks. Everyone smiles at him, and most of the adults give Uncle Bilbo little bows and call Frodo ‘young Thain-to-be.’ Frodo knows that he’s going to be Thain like his Papa was before him, and like Uncle Bilbo before that, but that’s years and years in the future, and now it’s much more interesting to run about with the other fauntlings and get his feet muddy and filch mushrooms.

At night, though, Bag End is huge and quiet and a little scary for a young hobbit, and Frodo sits outside in the twilight as long as he can get away with it, watching the stars come out, until Uncle Bilbo emerges from the kitchen to tell him it’s time for bed, really now young hobbit, come along now. From the front step he can see the hills of Hobbiton spread out around him, and hear the hobbits in the neighboring smials laughing and talking and singing. It’s nice.

They’ve been in Bag End a month, and Uncle Thorin has come and gone again, spending a week following Uncle Bilbo around with a rather baffled expression while Frodo and Thrain ran about poking their noses into everything, and Frodo enjoyed educating Thrain on _proper_ hobbit mealtimes, when Frodo’s evening contemplations abruptly become a lot less solitary. Frodo is listening to the faint clatter of Uncle Bilbo washing up, and the singing from the Boffins’ smial two hills over – must be a party, he thinks, if he can hear them, since he usually can’t – and a small voice next to him says, “Are you Master Frodo?”

Frodo turns. There’s a fauntling standing by the edge of the hill, about his own size, looking a little nervous but very stubborn. “I’m Frodo,” he says, “who’re you?”

“Sam Gamgee,” says the other fauntling, and brushes hair out of his eyes. “M’Gaffer says you’re to be Thain, and I wanted to see a Thain.”

Frodo grins. “I’m not a Thain yet,” he says. “Uncle Bilbo’s the Thain Regent until I’m grown.”

“Oh,” says Sam Gamgee, consideringly. Then, after a few moments, “Mam comes and cleans Bag End, most weeks. Sometimes she lets me help, if my sisters are busy.”

“Have you a lot of sisters?” Frodo asks, and scant minutes later the two are sitting side-by-side on the bench outside Bag End, chatting like they’ve been friends forever. When Bilbo comes out to herd Frodo inside, half an hour later, he finds his ward fast asleep with his head on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam sitting very still with an expression of great concentration, determined not to move and let Frodo fall.

“Thank you, Samwise,” Bilbo says quietly, and gathers his young cousin into his arms. “It is Samwise, isn’t it?”

“Yessir, Master Bilbo,” Sam says, ducking his head.

“I’m sure your mother’s looking for you, so late as it is,” Bilbo says. “Do please come back tomorrow, though – Frodo could use a friend.”

“I’ll come back, then,” Sam promises faithfully, and scampers off down the hill to the Gamgee smial, where his mother is standing in the doorway casting about for her wayward son. Bilbo carries Frodo in to bed with a smile on his face.

They spend the rest of the summer together, Sam and Frodo, and Bilbo and the Gamgees shrug at each other and watch the children tear off together on errands of their own. It’s good for Frodo to have a hobbit friend, Bilbo knows, and the Gamgees have been loyal to the Bagginses for years now. Young Sam bids fair to follow in his Gaffer’s footsteps as a gardener and a true friend, and Bilbo is glad that Frodo has found someone to run about and get into trouble with.

*

Bilbo’s not sure how he feels about being back in Bag End, so many years after he locked the door and went off to marry a dwarf he’d never met. Certainly Bag End is still his home; he can lay his hand on anything in moments, can map the steps from door to door within the house without a thought. His father’s paintings hang on the wall, his mother’s doilies and small treasures decorate the mantels. He has slept in most of the overstuffed chairs and read all the books in the library and cooked countless meals in the well-appointed kitchen.

And yet…

Belegost, too, has become his home now. He can wander the halls from the top of the mountain to the beginning of the mines with his eyes closed, has watched the smiths in their forges (from a safe distance) and the weavers in their halls, has practiced with the Guards and helped stable the ponies and worked beside Bombur in the vast kitchens. He knows his people all by name, can map their complicated genealogies and knows who should not be allowed to speak with whom. He has helped to found Belegost, to write its laws and mold its customs, and by his hand the dwarves of Belegost learned how to bind their lives to hobbit lasses. Belegost, too, is home.

It’s good to be in Bag End, to be in the Shire again, but Bilbo has grown used to Belegost’s stone halls, to Thorin beside him, to the gruff ways of dwarves and the occasional echoing Khuzdul epithets, to laughing dwobbit children with more beard than any hobbit has ever boasted, and furrier feet than any dwarf has ever claimed. He misses Belegost, somewhat to his own surprise; he thought that being in the Shire again would surely be enough to keep him distracted and content for the summer. He _definitely_ misses Thorin, but that is not a surprise at all. He knew that not having Thorin warm against his back at night, sturdy as a mountain beside him in the day, would be very hard indeed.

Still, Bilbo has always understood duty. Frodo needs to know the Shire, and Bilbo needs to be on hand to be Thain Regent and speak for the Bagginses in the meetings of the Thains. He is proud to do his duty, and glad to be a guardian to his little cousin, who has finally begun to recover from his great loss and run wild with Sam as a fauntling should.

And if Bilbo lies awake at night thinking of stone walls and Thorin, that is no one’s business but his own.


	5. Hidden Depths

Thorin is immensely glad when Bilbo returns to Belegost. The trees on the mountainside have begun to turn orange and red as forge flames, and there is a crisp bite to the outside air, and Bilbo is finally home. Thorin has missed his husband dearly these last months, for all that Bilbo is close enough to write letters to and to visit now and again; visits and brief letters in no way make up for the lack of Bilbo in his arms and at his side and in his bed.

Frodo, Thorin is glad to see, has grown happier during the summer in the Shire. His eyes are no longer as haunted, his manner not so scared and shy. Indeed, Frodo is actually rather terrifyingly hyperactive, galloping through the halls and dragging Thrain along behind him on childish adventures. He was certainly not so active in the spring.

Thorin asks Bilbo about Frodo’s energy, a few weeks after Bilbo’s return. The dwobbits do not act like Frodo does, and dwarven children are _much_ more staid and solemn. Bilbo blinks at Thorin in confusion.

“Of course Frodo runs about madly,” he says patiently. “He’s a fauntling. I was beginning to worry about him last winter, actually; it’s not normal for a fauntling to be so calm and still.”

“This is _normal_?” Thorin asks in astonishment, watching Frodo tear after Thrain. They are out on the mountainside, the children wrapped up warmly, and Frodo has apparently decided to play tag.

“Of course it is,” Bilbo says, smiling indulgently. “In the Shire, of course, we just let them run about in packs, as children will; here, I suppose Thrain will have to do, though in a few years perhaps young Samwise will be able to visit Belegost.” He shrugs. “We grow out of it by our twenties. Well, mostly; you’ve seen us dance.”

Thorin regards his husband with mild amazement. “You know, every time I think I have learned all there is to learn about hobbits, you tell me something new,” he says after a moment. “You have well-hidden depths, my husband.”

“Nonsense,” Bilbo replies cheerfully. “We’re a simple folk, hobbits. Food and dancing and good company, and we’re happy as clams.”

“True as that may be,” Thorin says, gathering Bilbo close to him, “there is more to you than that, Ring-bearer, Dragon-slayer, hero of Middle-Earth, you and all your people.”

“Hmph,” says Bilbo indignantly, but he tucks his head under Thorin’s chin and watches the children play, so Thorin figures he’s not _too_ annoyed by the reminder of his titles.

*

Thrain is also rather bemused by Frodo’s new energy, and by Frodo’s endless tales of Sam-Gamgee-my-friend (it took Thrain several days to sort the phrase into component words, as fast as Frodo usually says it). Thrain had rather gotten used to a quiet, solemn little hobbit child who followed him around like a puppy, and this newly enthusiastic little ball of energy and curly hair is rather a surprise.

Thrain finds himself retreating, now and again when Frodo’s nonstop motion becomes more bewildering and worrying than entertaining, to the apartments that Bombur and Senna and their children share with Bifur and Bofur and Columbine and their children. It is loud and full of bustle, but it is _dwarvish_ bustle, not the terrifying energy of one little hobbit child. Bissem is always glad to see him, and he and Thrain retreat together to a corner nook and whittle companionably at bits of wood, sometimes speaking, often silent.

More often than not, after a while, Bofur’s eldest daughter, Eglantine, joins them. She is in her early thirties, and well-started in her chosen craft: carpentry, an odd choice for a dwarf; but then, she is a dwobbit. She shows them tricks of the knife to make their little projects go more smoothly, and laughs at Bissem’s jokes, and is silent otherwise; Thrain likes her almost as well as he likes Bissem. Her hands are swift and deft on her knife, and there are several chairs in the ‘Ur apartments which bear her maker’s mark already.

She has a sparse beard, and her feet are furred so much that she does not bother with boots. She shrugs when Thrain asks about them, and replies that so long as she stays far from the forges and mines, her feet are no handicap. Thrain cannot help but think that staying far from the forges is its own kind of handicap: already he has begun to realize that his craft lies in gold and silver, in the creation of delicate and shining ornaments. It is a worthy craft, and one he shares with his great-uncle and king, who allows Thrain to watch him in the forge-rooms, to hand him hammers and ask quiet questions.

Thorin is a talented smith, it is well known, and though he _can_ work in iron and steel, and has made weapons in the past, his true gift is in the softer metals, as anyone who has seen the circlet which he made in apology for his husband must acknowledge. Thrain, the first time he saw the delicately crafted ring of lifelike flowers, set with gems and worked in gold, gaped and could not speak, for such a masterwork is every dwarf’s dream. Someday, with luck, Thrain himself will be able to create such a work of beauty and skill.

But Eglantine – Laney – seems content enough to avoid the forges and the mines, to sit quietly with a knife and a baulk of wood and create beauty with slow concentration. She learned, she tells Thrain one day beneath the furor of her brothers brawling, from her uncle Bifur, who guards the Prince and speaks only Khuzdul. When she was very small, she says, she used to sit at his feet in the evenings, playing with Mazam (whose granddaughter now sits on Bifur’s shoulder) and watching him create toys and tools with easy movements of knife on wood. Not for Laney the company of the packs of dwobbits swarming through the halls; not for her the companionship of the forges. She has devoted herself to her craft from the age she could hold a knife. It is a very dwarvish thing to do, really.

Besides her devotion to her craft, though, Laney really isn’t very dwarvish. She does not care that her beard is sparse and nowhere near long enough to begin to braid; she does not really care for gold and gems, and wears the beads her father and uncles give her merely to please them. She does not care to learn to fight, though she has her mother’s hobbitish skill in marksmanship, and wins every game of darts she plays with Thrain and Bissem. Thrain asks her, one day, whether she thinks she would not like the Shire better than Belegost, with its peaceful people and good food.

Laney shakes her head. “I have no particular love of gardening,” she says, after a while’s thought. Thrain has learned not to hurry her when she is thinking. “I am not polite and patient enough to be a hobbit; and I have not the love of gold and gems to be a dwarf.” She shrugs. “I am a dwobbit, and that must suffice.”

Thrain considers her words often in quiet moments after that. It must be hard, he thinks, to be caught between two races, never truly belonging to one or the other. He cannot imagine _not_ loving the deep mines and the heat of the forges, the beauty of gold and the pleasure of shaping the mountain’s stone. He has heard Bilbo and the other hobbits in the mountain speak of the peace of gardening, of the joy of song and fellowship and dancing late into the night, of the comfort of stability and quiet. Laney does not seem to fit into either of her parents’ cultures; that must be hard indeed.

Still, Thrain is young and deep contemplation does not come easily to children; he wanders the halls of Belegost with Bissem and Laney, and sits with them and whittles and tells stories, and learns from Thorin and from Bilbo and from the teachers they send him to, and is content with life.


	6. Telling Stories

Thorin goes to bed exhausted most days now. It is not the work of kingship – that he has long been accustomed to. Nor is it his work in the forge beside Thrain, which is a joy and a pleasure he has missed since Fili grew old enough to need no mentor. No, it is the work of raising not one but two children, and one so active and intelligent and young as to need near-constant supervision.

Thorin adores Frodo, as it happens; the child is easily adored. Frodo is clever and cheerful, eager to learn and happy to help, and Thorin quite enjoys his company and the work of keeping up with him. It is just that Frodo is so _very_ different from a dwarvish child. Thorin helped raise Fili and Kili, after their father was executed; he has a little experience, at least, with night terrors and childish imagination, with endless questions and wide-eyed innocence concealing some recent infraction. And certainly Fili and Kili were energetic children, eager to run about and play, to learn fighting and forging; certainly they did their best to escape the boring lessons in Khuzdul and courtly manners in favor of hunting or fishing or following Thorin about like puppies.

But Frodo is _constantly_ moving. Even Fili and Kili would grow tired and sit quietly now and again! Frodo does not stop moving until, kitten-like, he simply falls over with exhaustion. Bilbo seems to take this in stride, even to expect and enjoy it: he has already begun to teach Frodo the dancing which hobbits so enjoy, and willingly chases the lad around, running races and arranging games of marksmanship and agility. Thorin, watching them, considers that most hobbits have more than one child, and has a brief moment of utter awe at their capability and strength. Though, he supposes, as Bilbo said, after a while one can simply send them off in a pack and let them wear each other out, and not their poor aged parents. Indeed, Bilbo has already arranged for one of the youngest groups of dwobbits, those within a few years of Frodo’s age, to take the child off their hands now and then. But Frodo is to be Thain: there are lessons he must learn which no one but Bilbo can teach him, and Thorin wonders constantly _how_ one teaches such an energetic child without crushing his spirit or becoming a monster in the name of discipline?

He asks Bilbo, one night as they lie curled together under their blankets. Bilbo laughs against his beard. “It’s simple enough,” he says. “Most of what being a Thain is, is about talking to people – so I bring him around to talk to people, especially the hobbit lasses who have married in. While we’re in the Shire, we do the same thing. When he is older, I will worry about reading and arithmetic and all those bits that one must sit still for – though he can count quite high, as long as it’s a game, and he is eager enough to read that I do not anticipate any trouble there – but for now simply teaching him manners, and that by example, will suffice.”

That is all well and good for Bilbo, who has apparently endless stores of energy (Thorin thinks this might explain that long-ago confusion about how hobbits could eat so much: if they are all so active, all the time, well, that does clear some things up); but Thorin is a dwarf, and not made for games of marksmanship nor for running lightly from place to place. What can _he_ offer Frodo which Bilbo cannot do better?

He figures out the answer almost by accident, when one day he sits down with Thrain and begins to teach him the _Saga of Bilbo Ring-bearer_ , which is after all a vital part of the history of Belegost and of all Middle-Earth. He is teaching it in the common tongue, because Thrain has not yet mastered Khuzdul; and several stanzas in he looks down to find Frodo seated at his feet, gazing up with wide eyes to hear the exploits of his beloved Uncle.

Well, that is clear enough; and so Thorin beckons Frodo to him the next evening, after dinner. “Would you like to hear another story about your Uncle Bilbo?” he asks, and Frodo climbs up into his lap like a kitten and says, “Yes, please, Uncle Thorin!”

“Well then,” says Thorin, “this was many years ago now, in a far away place, Erebor it is called…”

*

Bilbo looks up from his book when he hears Thorin say, in comically confused tones, “What, in Mahal’s name, _is_ a hobbit?” Frodo is seated in Thorin’s lap, listening intently to what appears to be the tale of Bilbo and Thorin’s first meeting, in Erebor so long ago. Thrain is seated a little ways away, whittling, but he is watching Thorin out of the corner of his eye with some interest.

It is good, Bilbo decides, that Thorin is taking the time to get to know Frodo; and certainly they both look happy, there in the firelight, Frodo drinking up the story eagerly; but Bilbo knows how this goes. _Tonight_ it’s the story of their meeting and traveling to Belegost; _tomorrow_ there will be stories of the Ring-bearer or the Dragonsbane. Bilbo sighs a little. If the best way for Thorin to befriend Frodo is to tell stories of Bilbo’s heroics, well, that is what must be – but Bilbo does not have to _like_ it!

He considers his husband and their wards – the closest Bilbo will ever come to having sons of his own – over the top of his book, pensively. Thirty-five years ago, young and scared and determined not to show it, he would never have dreamed of such a scene. He had thought, then, that he would never have children; and as little as he knew of dwarves, he hadn’t even quite known if they _had_ children in the normal way, or if they carved new dwarves from the very stone of the mountains. Fili and Kili and Gimli had been great reliefs to him: so obviously young and still growing, so well-loved by their parents and guardians. If there were children so well-cared-for among the dwarves, well, then dwarves were not so different from hobbits after all, he had decided all those years ago.

Now he laughs at his own thoughts. Dwarves certainly _are_ different from hobbits, he knows now. Look at Primrose, for instance! The hobbits in the Shire speak of her as a fine cook and baker, and only then as a brave lass who went adventuring, scandalous as that is; the dwarves of Belegost sing songs of Primrose Axe-Maid, and not a one of them would think to list her cooking among those skills which most deserve their praise. And look, too, at Bilbo, he thinks wryly: Bilbo Ring-bearer and Dragonsbane, Prince Consort of Belegost, who hates his titles and the songs which follow him, and would far rather sit with his books and papers, or lean contentedly against his husband, and never have needed to go a-questing.

That night he tucks himself under his husband’s arms and says, “It’s good you’re telling Frodo stories.”

Thorin blinks at him. “I did not think you’d like the tales,” he admits, “as little as you like to be praised for your courage.”

Bilbo shrugs. “It amuses the children,” he says, “and I cannot be too angry at the tales you tell for love of me, husband.”

Thorin kisses him fiercely. “ _All_ my tales are for love of you,” he says when they break apart to breathe. “If not for you, there would be no Thorin to tell tales – no, nor a wide-eyed hobbit child to hear them.” He pauses, then adds slowly, “I’ve little enough to interest a hobbit lad – he has the Shire in his blood, where I have stone, and I cannot teach him to smith or to mine, but I can give him stories of the bravest and most stubborn of hobbits.”

Bilbo kisses Thorin thoroughly. “Truly you are a marvelous husband,” he says after a long while, “and I love you. You may tell Frodo whatever tales you please, and I shall not object – only do not let Ori take this as permission to sing the _Sagas_ at every formal dinner!”

Thorin laughs. “That I shall not,” he says. “It will be my pleasure and mine alone to tell Frodo of his courageous cousin.”


	7. Make-Believe

“I’ll be Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo tells his friend imperiously, “and you can be Gimli the Guardian.”

Sam nods. “I’ll protect you against _everything_ ,” he promises solemnly, and takes up a largish stick from the pile of firewood they’ve been gathering. “See, here’s my axe!”

Frodo grins. “Perfect!” he enthuses, and pulls something small and shiny from his pocket. “Here’s the Ring, and over _there_ ,” he points across the field to a small hill, “is Mount Doom! We have to be really quiet so the orcs don’t catch us.”

Someone clears her throat behind them, and both fauntlings whirl to find little Rosie Cotton staring at them. “What’re you playing?”

Sam scuffs the ground with a foot. “Playin’ at the Ring-quest, like Master Bilbo went on,” he admits sheepishly. Frodo nods and holds up the little brass ring they’re using as a prop.

“Would you like to play?”

Rosie grins. “Yes!” she says. “I want to be Lady Dis!”

Frodo and Sam look at each other and shrug. “Sure,” Frodo says, “you can be Grandma Dis if you like.”

Rosie looks triumphant. “Then that means you have to do whatever I say!”

“But Uncle Bilbo is the _Prince_ ,” Frodo protests. “That means _he’s_ in charge!”

Bilbo, who has been watching quietly from under a tree, loses control of his chuckles. The fauntlings turn to look at him, and he waves a hand weakly at Rosie. “She’s got the right of it, lads,” Bilbo manages between guffaws. “It’s always wiser to do what Lady Dis says!”

Frodo gives in with good grace. “Alright,” he tell Rosie, “you can lead.” She nods imperiously and beckons the boys to follow her as she sneaks towards the designated hill. Bilbo notes that she’s actually rather good at sneaking – better than you’d expect a six-year-old fauntling in a bright blue pinafore to be, anyhow.

*

Thorin does not enjoy the months while Bilbo is in the Shire, but he understands their necessity – the line of Durin knows duty, after all – and in any case it does give him some time with Thrain. If he cannot be with Bilbo, then at least he can spend his evenings instructing Thrain in the history of their line, of Belegost and Moria and Erebor and the long pedigree of Durin’s folk.

(This is only a little complicated by the fact that Durin has been reborn as Thrain’s younger brother.)

They are studying the history of Erebor when Thrain looks up from the scroll and cocks his head curiously. “Frerin was your younger brother,” he observes.

Thorin nods. “He was,” he confirms, “by some years.”

“I am to inherit Belegost,” Thrain says slowly, “and Durin will have Moria, so that the halls which Durin built will have their Lord again. That is right and proper. But Frerin was no reborn _khuzdel_ , best of our line – why did he inherit Erebor?”

Thorin winces a little. It is not the most illustrious chapter in his line’s history. But Thrain is heir to the whole of their line, not merely the pieces which are pleasant to think on, and so Thorin leans back in his chair and considers the question carefully.

“It began with the Battle of Azanulbizar,” he says finally. “I know you know of it.”

Thrain nods obediently. “My grandfather, Thrain, for whom I am named, led the army of Erebor against the orcs which then inhabited Moria; but the orcs were too strong and numerous, and Thrain retreated in order that his whole army not be lost.”

“Well remembered,” Thorin commends him, and Thrain smiles a little at the praise. “When Thrain my father returned to Erebor, my grandfather, Thror, would hear no word of strategy or sanity, but held that retreating from the orcs was little better than treason. So my father fell under great suspicion, and was not in favor with his father.”

Thrain raises a hand and bends over the scroll. “Thrain my grandfather lived when his father died – I have just remembered. _He_ should have inherited, before even you, Uncle!”

“ _Very_ good,” Thorin tells him. “Now, if my father _had_ been attainted for treason – which he was not, but let us pretend he was – what difference would that have made to the line of succession?”

“He could not have inherited, but his heir could, just as if Thrain my grandfather had died,” Thrain replies promptly.

“You learn well,” Thorin smiles. “I shall tell Balin he has produced a fine student. Now, my father was _not_ attainted for treason, but he was much out of favor with Thror my grandfather. This was in part because Thror’s mind was being influenced by the Dragon within the Arkenstone which was his greatest treasure – but we only learned that many years after his death, through the actions of my husband.”

Thrain grins. “I do like the _Saga of Bilbo Dragonsbane_ ,” he says cheerfully. “Though Uncle Bilbo always looks a bit ill when Ori sings it.”

“Bilbo is not fond of fame,” Thorin says dryly. “Well. The long and short of it is that I looked a great deal like my father, and Thror was old and his eyesight was failing and the Dragon had its hold upon him tightly. He hated me for my father’s failure, but Frerin, like your father, was blond of hair, and resembled our mother, long dead but still much mourned, far more than our father. So Thror favored him, and as the will of the king is law…” Thorin shrugs. “Frerin was given the throne, though by the time Thror died I was already in Belegost and could not have returned easily.”

Thrain gives his great-uncle a shrewd look. “But you were sent away because you were being disinherited.”

Thorin nods. “Belegost was…meant to be an exile and a disgrace,” he admits. “It is neither, and I hope you do not think it so.”

Thrain smiles. “I like it here,” he says simply. “I like Bissem, and Laney, and really everyone I meet is so kind. And the food is good. I shall be proud to be king of Belegost, though may that day be long in coming; I shall be glad to stay here all my life.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Thorin says solemnly. “I think that you will be a good king for my kingdom; I shall leave it to you, when the time comes, with an easy heart.”

Thrain beams. “Thank you, Uncle,” he says quietly, and they sit for a moment in silence, two dark-haired dwarves of Durin’s line together.


	8. A Party and a Plan

The first time Thrain calls Frodo ‘brother’ comes as a surprise to both of them. It happens on Frodo’s eleventh birthday – an important date, it being one third of his majority. They have been in Belegost five years by that point, have sat beside each other at feasts and leaned one on each of Thorin’s knees as he told them stories, have told each other the small secrets of children and kept them safe, but Thrain has always remembered, before, that he is a dwarf and Frodo is a hobbit of no blood relation. A cute child, to be sure, but not really _family_.

Apparently it is a custom among hobbits for the eleven-year-old child to make and give gifts to their loved ones, on their eleventh birthday – the dwarves of Belegost are still adjusting to the hobbit habit of _giving_ gifts at every occasion, rather than expecting them – and Frodo has labored for months over his presents. His friends Sam and Rosie have been invited up to Belegost for the occasion, and Thrain finds himself for the week before the party being shadowed by three little hobbits, all quiet as snowfall. It’s a little flattering, actually.

Frodo gives gifts to Thorin and Bilbo, of course, and to Sam and Rosie, to Dis and Dwalin and Ori and Balin; that is only proper, for they are his friends and family. They are small things, for the most part: sculpted and painted clay figures, rather well done actually, in the shape of animals or flowers or, for Sam, a tiny copy of Gimli’s famous axe. (Sam is overcome with joy.) Thrain is not expecting a gift, for all that he lives with Frodo, but rather to his surprise Frodo hands him a tiny packet, and he unwraps it carefully to find a clay tablet stamped with a single Khuzdul runeword: Thrain’s own name, carved in an elegant hand.

“Thank you, nadadith,” Thrain says, unexpectedly touched, and Frodo _beams_. It takes Thrain a moment to realize what he has said, what he has called Frodo: _little brother_ , a name Thrain has never given anyone before, because calling Durin the Deathless ‘little’ seemed sacrilegious somehow.

But now that Thrain thinks on it, why should he not call Frodo ‘brother’? The lad lives with him; they are raised alike by their uncles; they share food and hearth; and Thrain is really quite fond of Frodo, with his quick wits and his wide blue eyes and his easy laughter. “Nadadith,” Thrain says again, and ruffles Frodo’s hair. Frodo leans into the caress happily.

All in all it is a very good party.

*

“But I am _not_ a dwarf,” Laney says with some heat. “No more am I a hobbit!” Thrain and Bissem exchange a glance of worry. Laney is usually quite even-tempered, a good match for Thrain’s silence and Bissem’s dry wit. Today she is furious enough that they have abandoned their usual place in the corner of the Ur family’s rooms for a perch high on the mountainside overlooking the Shire. Laney has been ranting for quite a while already. The root of her anger appears to be her father’s expectation that she will eventually discover in herself a love of mining or at least smithwork, paired with her mother’s expectation that if she does not follow in her father’s path, she will turn to gardening and embroidery like a proper hobbit woman.

“I like _carpentry_ ,” Laney says furiously, stomping back and forth along the little ridge. “I am not going to suddenly like holes, or dirt, or thrice-damned needles, just because Mother and Father think I should!”

Out of her line of sight, Bissem shrugs helplessly at Thrain, who shrugs back and digs a packet of honey-cakes out of his pocket. “Here,” he offers, and Laney takes one and bites into it angrily. Thrain has never seen anyone eat a honey-cake angrily before. It does calm her down, though – Uncle Bilbo’s honey-cake recipe is a well-known panacea – and finally she sighs and stops pacing.

“Why must I _choose_?” she asks plaintively. “Why cannot I just be who I am, and not _worry_ about whether I am more a dwarf or more a hobbit? What’s _wrong_ with just being me?”

Thrain does not know what to tell her, so he gives her his share of the honey-cakes and makes sympathetic noises until she subsides into a silent funk, leaning against his shoulder while Bissem gently braids her hair. They sit there until night falls, watching the little sparks of light which mark the smials of Hobbiton twinkle in the evening dimness.

*

Thrain asks Balin about Laney’s problem at their lesson the next day. Bissem, who has been learning beside Thrain for three years now, since Balin decided that Bissem would make a good chief advisor to Thrain’s future kingship, nods solemnly. “She is _miserable_ ,” he says earnestly. “ _Is_ there something we can do?”

Balin strokes his beard thoughtfully. “It is not a problem I have confronted before,” he says finally. “Belegost is, of course, the first dwarven kingdom to have dwobbits, and this is the first generation of dwobbits to come of age.”

“But surely there have been _dwarves_ who were unhappy with their lot in life,” Thrain protests. “Is that not why Belegost was founded?”

Balin frowns. “It is why there were those willing to join Thorin on his march,” he admits, “but had Thorin not left Erebor, I do not know that anyone would have thought of doing so. Dwarves do not care to leave their homes, as a matter of course, once they have settled in them. The settlement of Moria, too, is an anomaly, and likely only worked because the idea of re-settling the greatest kingdom in our history is such an appealing draw.”

Thrain grins. “And there is mithril,” he adds cheerfully. “That is also a very good incentive.”

“Indeed,” Balin agrees gravely. “But mithril would hardly be appealing to those like Laney – for there are others among the dwobbits who feel as she does – who desire neither the Shire of their mothers nor the mountains of their fathers.”

Thrain laughs a little. “It would be nice if there was someplace sort of…in the middle, you know? Someplace where they wouldn’t have to choose to be hobbits or dwarves, and could do whatever they liked.”

Bissem shrugs. “There’s no place like that around here,” he points out. “The land to the foot of the mountains is all Shire-fields, and the mountains haven’t much arable land on them, and all of it is already covered in gardens anyhow. My aunt has one.”

“Most of the hobbits do,” Balin agrees. “I believe young Frodo helps Bilbo with his, these days – part of learning to be a proper hobbit. You make a good point, Bissem: there is nowhere near here where those dwobbits who wish to be…neither one thing or another might find their own place.” He looks thoughtful. “You may, however, have given me an idea…”

*

Gimli looks up from sharpening his axe when Balin knocks on the open door to his rooms. “Might I help you, my lord Balin?” he asks, mildly confused that the king’s advisor has sought him out.

“I wanted to speak to you on the matter of the city you hope to found,” Balin says.

“Come in, then, and be welcome,” Gimli replies, and sets the axe aside.


	9. Letters II

My dearest Legolas,

I am sure you have heard by now the news from Gondor, which came to Prince Bilbo recently: Queen Arwen has had another child! Even for a dwarf, two children in five years is impressive; for an elf, I rather think it is more than impressive, is it not?

Prince Bilbo is very happy for the Lady, and I am also glad; she will be as good a mother as she is a queen, I am sure, and as good a queen as she is a healer, and that is fine indeed. And perhaps there will be others among your people who can use the secrets Bilbo gave to the Lady to have their own children – I know your people love children as much as dwarves and hobbits do.

I had a very fascinating conversation with Balin, the chief advisor to the king, the other afternoon. He tells me that there are those among the dwobbits who are not contented in Belegost or the Shire, who do not wish to choose between their dwarven heritage and their hobbit blood, and suggested that in some years, when they are grown to maturity, perhaps it would suit them to come with us when we go south, and build a city where they need not choose.

I told Balin I thought it was a fine idea but that I would have to check with you. _Do_ you think that elves and dwobbits could live together? It is not as though they think that elves are poisonous, as King Thorin does; all the dwobbits know that they owe their existence to the kindness of Lord Elrond, and hobbits do not hate easily, as a rule, so their dwarven fathers are overruled entirely if they try to teach the children their own hatred of your folk.

(And now I am imagining poisonous elves. How would that work? Perhaps your charming pointed ears would have stings in their tips? Or your lovely hair could perhaps be coated in something deadly. What do you think?)

Young Frodo grows apace – he is a charming lad, and Prince Bilbo tells me that he runs about with his friends in the Shire playing at being on the Ring Quest. Frodo, of course, gets to be Bilbo – but one of his friends has taken the role of Dis, and Prince Bilbo tells me that she is as fierce and protective as her pretended self!

I miss you terribly already, _mizimel_ , best of jewels. I have never seen anything as beautiful as you are in battle and in the dance, the grace of your movements and the flash of your hands and the light in your eyes brighter than sapphires. Your company makes even the forest as welcoming as the finest tunnels; the winters are longer every year, I swear, and I wait impatiently for the day I can take to the road and return to your side at last.

When we have at last found our place, our small kingdom where we can live together between forests and mountains, I will never leave your side again; where we settle, there shall I stay with my _ghivashel_ until the stone takes me.

Until that day, as always, I am,

Your Gimli

*

_My star,_

_Always your words are as clever as your metalwork, and as beautiful! I, too, long for the day when we shall never again be parted, and when that day comes I shall dance indeed, for joy and gratitude that I and my heart shall forever be together from that day on._

_You speak of young Frodo playing at the Quest: tell me, do any of his companions play at being Gimli, most faithful of companions? I would guess that they do, for I have heard the Saga which speaks of your courage, and Prince Bilbo would surely have told his ward of his fierce bodyguard. The lass who plays Dis must be a strong little thing, if she dares to be that most dangerous of dwarves, Spider-Slayer herself!_

_I think, my dearest, that elves and dwobbits will likely get on as well as might be expected of any two races which have never met; at any rate, as you say, the hobbit blood ought to counteract any inborn prejudice against us, and those who I plan to bring with me are sensible enough not to hold the dwobbits’ dwarven blood against them. If there are those in Belegost who wish to join our expedition, I shall welcome them, and happily so._

_I cannot help but laugh at your imaginings of poisonous elves – what, are we to interbreed with the spiders now, and bring the wrath of Lady Dis down upon us all? I had rather wear a beard of squirrels’ tails all my life than have stings in my ears, I think. Pray do restrain yourself from making me ear-guards or anything of that ilk; I should not be able to wear them without laughing, and I would not wish to put aside anything which you had given me._

_We, too, have heard of Queen Arwen’s second child, and I am happy for her, and for all our people, for she sent with her letter to my father and his court a description of the herbal tea which was so great a boon to her. Indeed, all of my father’s people are in great joy at the thought that we might perhaps have many children, as many as please us, and as swiftly as we might desire, rather than waiting centuries upon centuries until the Valar see fit to bless us with new life._

_But amid this joy I find a strange terror, for my father grows odder with each passing year. He did not find the Queen’s news glorious, but mutters now and again to himself against not only dwarves – which, you know, he is wont to do, and there is nothing I have found to say which will convince him otherwise – but now he rages too against Prince Bilbo, and says that the hobbits have been concealing this great secret from us intentionally, so that our people should dwindle and go into the West, and Thranduil should have no more sons but his one, in whom he is so disappointed._

_I…do not know what to make of this, my heart. How can he think that the hobbits of the Shire – a people whose existence we did not even imagine until so few years ago! – would so deliberately do harm to the elven race? What possible incentive could there be for the hobbits to conceal so great a secret, save that they did not know it was a secret – and now that they know that we had not learned to use these herbs, they have told us, and all the elves of Middle-Earth may now use the hobbit remedy._

_Ah, I am rambling, but I am so confused. You will forgive me, I hope, that I am not over-dismayed by my father’s hatred of dwarves; that is years upon years in the making, and has its roots in things which occurred far before my own birth; indeed, there are so many elves who hate dwarves, and so many dwarves who hate elves, that such as you and I are far more inexplicable, for how should two of such inimical races have grown to love each other save for the Quest and its hardships which brought us together? But to hate hobbits – why, he has begun to blame Prince Bilbo not only for my relationship with your beloved self, but for the Arkenstone’s spirit, and even for the presence of the Ring!_

_I do not know what to say or do to shake him from this madness. It is not brought on by Ring or Stone or foul magery; no curse lies upon our line, no darkness invades our forest, Dol Guldur stands empty and bare as it has been since Gandalf’s battle there, and even the spiders are long since slain. There is nothing I can break or melt or bear away to bring my father’s mind again to reason._

_Gimli, there seems to be so little in this world which is certain, but I am certain always of your love, and you are as bright a light of hope to me as all the stars of the heavens; elenath, write to me soon and often, and remind me of the world without this Wood, where there are laughing children and the Princes are as kind and sane and good as can ever be desired._

_I love you, and I miss you, and as always I remain,_

_Your Legolas_


	10. Concerning Hobbits

As Frodo grows older, he loses some of his manic energy, and he and Bilbo begin to spend long hours together bent over books and slates, punctuated by long circuitous walks through the halls of Belegost. Thorin sometimes joins them on the walks: it is fascinating to see Bilbo interact with his people. Mostly Bilbo speaks to the hobbit wives, since he is teaching Frodo how to be a Thain of hobbits, not a Prince of dwarves; but it is fascinating all the same.

Bilbo is invariably polite, even when the hobbits bring him problems that even Thorin, who holds a weekly open court for small issues so that they do not grow into larger ones, thinks are remarkably unimportant. A lost plate, a lost kitten, a harsh word from a friend: what has the Thain, or the Prince, to do with these? But Bilbo listens carefully to every complaint, and does his best to sort it out and to smooth over the hurt feelings – a very good best, Thorin thinks, watching hobbit after hobbit walk away smiling – and later, in their rooms, explains to Frodo what he did and why, with Frodo chiming in with his own guesses and suggestions.

Thorin asks Bilbo, one evening when the children are in bed, why spend so much time seeking out such small and insignificant problems? Bilbo leans back in his chair and considers the question for long minutes.

“Hobbits are a peaceful people,” he says at last; Thorin nods agreement. “But even hobbits can be ill-tempered, can have feuds and disagreements and arguments. We do not have open court days as you do here; we rarely have _any_ court days, as infrequently as there is crime in the Shire. But the job of the Thains is to…to oil the machinery, to keep it moving freely and without friction.”

Thorin nods again, wondering idly what metaphor Bilbo might have used before he came to live with dwarves.

“We go out among our people, we speak to them each and all, from the eldest to the youngest, and so when there _is_ a problem, we find it when it is small, and pluck it out. I do not know if you have ever pulled weeds: when they are small, they are easy to pull from the soil, but when they grow strong, their roots are deep, and you may never get every bit of them, so that they return again and again to plague you. Thains are the gardeners of the Shire; we keep our people strong by rooting out the weeds when they are small and easily removed.”

“That makes good sense,” Thorin agrees, thinking of the peaceful air of the Shire, of the smiling hobbits and their constant song and laughter. Clearly, that peace is the product of hard work and a clear understanding of the nature of people, at least on the part of the Thains.

“Then, too, there is this,” Bilbo said slowly. “You are astonished, I know – you and all the dwarves – by my deeds, and Primrose’s, and those of the hobbits who came to fight at the Battle of the Shire.”

“We are,” Thorin agrees. “You are a people not given to war or hardship, and yet you weather it like veterans, strong as stone.”

Bilbo sighs. “Imagine, then, if you will, what a hobbit who became truly _angry_ could do. One who was as consumed by their anger as I was with love for you, or Primrose with love for Kili. One who wished, as devoutly as I wished to destroy the Ring, to destroy what had made them angry.”

Thorin imagines it. And then he winces, because that elemental stubbornness of his husband, that endless strength even when strength _should_ be gone – that, directed towards vengeance? Would be a fearsome thing indeed.

“We know it, we Thains,” Bilbo says. “We know what strength lies in our blood. We are of the deep earth, which never breaks nor dies; we are stronger than we imagine, all of us. We Thains _dare_ not let any quarrel grow beyond petty, any feud become ingrained. We know what the consequences would be, and we _will not let it happen_. Not in our Shire. Not while we have breath and blood and life.”

Thorin stands and gathers his husband into his arms, kissing him thoroughly. “Always you surprise me,” he says wonderingly. “To think I ever thought you soft!”

Bilbo laughs and wraps his arms around Thorin’s neck, tangling his fingers in Thorin’s braids. “Compared to you, I _am_ soft,” he points out merrily, “oh stone-muscled dwarf of mine.”

Thorin grins and kisses Bilbo again and bears him joyfully off to bed.

*

Thrain enjoys his time with Balin, learning the history of his people and especially their kings; and he likes his time with Ori, puzzling out the runes of Khuzdul and memorizing the _Sagas_ of the great bards; and he quite looks forward to his time with Dwalin, learning axe and sword and bow under his demanding tutor; but his favorite times of all are when he is beside Thorin in the forges, learning to shape glowing metal to his will and set glittering gems against their shining backdrops. Thorin is a gruff dwarf of few words, most of the time, but in the forges he relaxes, as he does nowhere else but at his husband’s side: he smiles, he makes jokes, he shows endless patience as he coaches Thrain through a new technique or a repetition of an older lesson.

In the private forge set aside for Thorin, Thrain can ask any questions he pleases, even those he knows would get him nothing more than a glower in any other place, and Thorin will reply between blows of his hammer or careful pouring of molten metal into casts. Thrain does his best not to take too much advantage of this uncharacteristic loquacity, but sometimes it is hard not to just ask _everything_. Still, he tries to ration himself to two or three questions a day. Some days that works better than others.

Today he is feeling a little out of sorts: he gave _entirely_ the wrong answer in his lessons with Balin (and Bissem got it right, and Thrain cannot decide whether to be relieved or jealous – on the one hand, having a clever advisor will be good, on the other hand, well, Thrain is a bit competitive), and Dwalin was in a bad mood and would not give even the tiniest bit of praise for Thrain’s weaponswork.

He watches Thorin work for a while in silence – Thorin is working with wire today, bending it carefully and painstakingly into beads with intricate patterns in them, and it is a pleasure to watch – and then, when Thorin has finished a bead, he takes a deep breath. Thorin looks up.

“Uncle, do you think I will be a good king?” Thrain is proud that his voice does not waver.

Thorin smiles. “Yes,” he says, instantly and unequivocally, and Thrain cannot help the smile that spreads over his face at his great-uncle’s trust in him. “I would not have kept you as my heir had you not proven, within weeks of your arrival here, to be even-tempered and well-spoken, clever and clear-headed; you bid fair to be a better king than I have been, Thrain son of Fili, for my temper and my pride have been my downfall ere now, and it is only by the heart and will of my husband that I am sane.”

Thrain shakes his head. “You are a good king; everyone says so,” he assures his great-uncle. “Even when they do not know I am there, they speak of Thorin Peacemaker, who brought them to wealth and plenty beside a green land.”

Thorin smiles broadly. “If I shall go to my ancestors as the Peacemaker, I shall go happily indeed,” he tells Thrain. “I think you shall be titled likewise well, o my great-nephew; I shall leave my kingdom in your hands with a glad heart, for you cherish it as I do, it and all its people.”

Thrain smiles for the rest of the evening, in his quiet understated way, and holds his great-uncle’s words in his heart, and takes them out sometimes to remind him of the great trust which is given him, which he will do his utmost to deserve.


	11. In the Shire

Frodo likes Belegost well enough, but he _loves_ the Shire. It feels like he has come home as soon as he sets foot on its soil; actually reaching Bag End is how he imagines the end of a great quest must be, the relief and joy and relaxation of _home, home at last_. He cannot help grinning up at Bilbo, dancing his way from room to room throughout Bag End, touching mathoms and furniture as if to say, _I’m back! Did you miss me?_ Bilbo just smiles and lets Frodo dance, and Frodo is grateful for the lack of questions or comments. He doesn’t think he could actually articulate the way that being home makes him feel, and trying would just be awkward and unpleasant.

Being in the Shire _also_ means that Sam and Rosie will be there. Every year, they stop at the bottom of the hill to speak to the Gamgees – Sam’s father, called the Gaffer now that the old Gaffer has passed on, keeps the key for them during the winter – and Frodo invites Sam up to dinner that night, as polite as you please; and the Gamgees and Bilbo smile at each other, knowing that the lads will be inseparable for the rest of the summer. Sam sleeps at Bag End as often as not, collapsed in the second bed in Frodo’s room after a long day’s romping and a long evening’s chattering. Bilbo peeks in the door many evenings to find them bent over a book or a small treasure, talking in low voices and breaking out in laughter every few minutes, and smiles to see his ward so well befriended.

Rosie is less constantly present, but she comes over to play with the boys every couple of days, whenever she can convince her older brother to look after their three little siblings for her. She bosses the boys around mercilessly, and neither of them seems to mind very much; but Bilbo notices, watching them play, that when Frodo makes a decision, Rosie follows his lead; it is only where Frodo has no particular opinion that Rosie makes the choices. That is well enough, Bilbo knows; a Thain must be able to hold his own and be obeyed, but there is no reason for a Thain to become a tyrant, making every decision no matter how small. Strong-minded Rosie is a good friend for Frodo to have.

Frodo is old enough that he is beginning to learn, mostly by osmosis, how to be a Thain, how to weed out the dangerous emotions of the hobbits of the Shire and leave only peace behind. It is a constant job; there are no days off for a Thain, and while Bilbo is in Belegost, the Thains Took and Boffin and Chubb and Brandybuck are looking after the Baggins lands. Bilbo knows – _must_ know – every one of his people, from oldest to youngest, their friends and enemies and family connections, and so Frodo must learn all of that too. His running about with Sam and Rosie, though he has not quite realized it yet, is good for his training: he meets and plays with every child in the Baggins lands, and most of the Brandybucks and Boffins and Tooks besides. In later years these months of play will be the foundation for his understanding of his peers.

Currently, Frodo is several years from worrying about such issues. He is simply happy to have Sam beside him, indefatigable Sam, sturdy as an oak tree and loyal as Gimli; and Rosie on Sam’s other side, laughing as they come up with some new adventure, a tree to climb or mushrooms to filch or a new and harder target to aim at. Bilbo, who knows the weight of a Thainship, cannot begrudge him his youth and joy and innocence.

*

Often on rainy afternoons the fauntlings will come to beg Bilbo for a story. Frodo likes to hear about his parents and the Shire, tales of the small goings-on of hobbit life: parties and festivals, minor arguments and making up, births and deaths and the change of the seasons. He will be a fine Thain one day, Bilbo thinks, who loves the Shire so. Rosie likes stories of long ago and far away, the time of wandering before the Shire was found; she does not need stories to know how the Shire works _now_ , as deeply immersed in it as she is. And Samwise, bless him, loves adventure tales of any sort. His personal hero, as far as Bilbo can tell, is Gimli son of Gloin – who is a fine hero for any young lad, and Bilbo’s just as glad that Samwise isn’t hero-worshiping _him_. An entire mountain of dwarves singing _Sagas_ at the drop of a hat is quite enough, thank you very much.

Bilbo has always enjoyed telling stories, and having three eager young fauntlings hanging on his every word is no exception. Today Frodo has won the brief argument about what sort of story they will hear, and Bilbo thinks for a long moment, smiling at their impatient expressions, before settling back in his chair.

“Now, I know you’ve heard Thorin’s side of this story, my lad – and I’m sure he’s told it to you two, as well – but this is the tale of how I ended up married to a dwarf, much to my own surprise.”

Frodo perks up, and Samwise and Rosie exchange interested glances. That’s good; Bilbo doesn’t want to bore them, after all.

“You all know it’s hard for the Big Folk to even find the Shire, what with the Rangers and the elves protecting us – not that we knew about that until recently – so it was a bit of a surprise, you might say, when old Gerontius Took sent out messages to the rest of the Thains that _Gandalf_ , of all people, had arrived with an escort of dwarves, and wished to speak with the Council. Well, as you might imagine, there was _quite_ an uproar. It took three meetings for us just to agree to speak with them! Thain Chubb wanted them to leave the Shire immediately, and Thain Boffin wanted Gandalf to explain himself, which never works, and Thain Brandybuck was _sure_ this was going to end badly, and all of the Tooks just wanted to go adventuring with the dwarves, if that was on offer.”

The fauntlings giggle. They play with the Tooks often enough, and come home muddy and wet and covered in tree bark, too.

“Well, we argued it back and forth for a week, and then eventually Thain Hornblower stood up and banged on the table and said, ‘Well, we shan’t learn a thing unless we ask them!’ And we all had to admit that he was quite right. So in they came, eight dwarves, all with their beards braided up and their axes on their backs – right intimidating they were – with a treaty all written out in Khuzdul, which of course none of us could read, and Gandalf behind them grinning fit to burst.

“It took them a while to explain what they wanted, and then it took us a while to understand _why_ they wanted it. Didn’t they have their own mountain, off to the east; why should they want the mountains beside the Shire? Well, said they, their mountain was crowded, and they had heard of fine veins of metal in our mountains besides. But what about the Misty Mountains, we asked, weren’t they closer? For we none of us knew a thing about mining, and thought one mountain much like another. Well, said they, the Misty Mountains were full of orcs and foul things, and one of them looked very grim and touched the scar on his face like it pained him still; so we abandoned that line of questioning.

“So we asked as many questions as we could think of: how many dwarves, and how soon, and what would they give us in return, and at last we had agreed among ourselves that it wasn’t so bad a proposition. But then the dwarves gave us _quite_ a surprise, for they asked quite plainly whether we hadn’t any bachelors to send, instead of a fair hobbit lass.”

Frodo’s eyes are wide, and Rosie leans forward curiously. “Why would they want a lad, not a lass?” she inquires.

“Well, we asked the same question, and never a clear answer could we get out of them save that it would be better for their kingdom, and no reason why. So at last we decided that it was a bit odd, but what did we expect of dwarves but oddity?

“Now at that point I had a bout of sheer Tookishness, the first in my whole life. I was a confirmed bachelor, you see, and no hobbit lad or lass had ever caught my eye, but I thought, well, I am alone in the world, no siblings or parents or lover to hold me back; and I stood up in the council meeting and said, ‘I will go to Erebor.’”

Samwise claps his hands in glee – he has adventuring in him, Bilbo thinks, though not so strongly as the Tooks do, and there is also the sturdy gardening blood of the Gamgees to consider; adventuring Samwise may go, but he will always come home again.

“The dwarves left the next day with their contract, and a month later I followed them, riding in front of Gandalf on his tall horse.” He grins at the fauntlings. “And I shall tell you the rest of it after tea.”

“Scones!” Frodo cheers, and leaps out of his chair.


	12. Rivendell

The spring that the boys are thirteen and thirty-one, Bilbo takes them to Rivendell. They leave with the yearly caravan from Belegost, Bilbo and Thrain and Frodo, and Bissem and Laney and Sam along with them, and Bifur and Besla for bodyguards, and Dis to keep an eye on everyone. Thorin is less than happy to see them go, but he knows that it is wise for the future king of Belegost and the future Thain Baggins to meet Lord Elrond, and to become – if not friends – then at least allies with the elves of Rivendell. Still, this summer will be longer than ever, Thorin knows, as he will not even be able to visit the Shire to see his husband.

The children are _ecstatic_ about the trip, though Sam and Frodo are briefly dismayed that Rosie’s parents would not let her accompany them. Sam and Frodo have never been so far from the Shire; Bissem and Laney have never left Belegost; and though Thrain came to Belegost from Moria, that was nearly ten years ago, and he has only met elves once, and that briefly.

Lord Elrond welcomes them with open arms.

“Bilbo! It is good to see you again; Lady Dis, it is our pleasure to welcome you to Rivendell.”

Dis grins. “I’d say it was a pleasure to be here, but you would not believe me,” she teases.

Lord Elrond grins in response. “Surely Rivendell can find _something_ to please the Lady Dis,” he teases back. Then, to Bilbo, “I have asked my sons to look after your wards and their friends; will that suit you?”

Bilbo glances at his gaggle of children. “Well, I don’t know that Elladan and Elrohir will be able to keep up with all of them…” he says slowly.

“Here now!” Elladan cries, popping up behind his father with a theatrical look of dismay. “Two elves are _more_ than a match for five children!” Elrohir steps up beside his brother, grinning widely.

Bilbo looks them over, then shrugs. “Well, if you’re _sure_ ,” he says, and then, to his wards, “Off you go, now, and mind your manners. I’ll see you for dinner. Listen to Elladan and Elrohir, and try not to break anything.”

The children all nod solemnly and troop off after Elrond’s sons in a tight clump. Bilbo watches them go with a wry smile. “I predict that good behavior will last…oh…at least an hour,” he observes.

Dis slings an arm over his shoulders. “You give the lads too little credit!” she replies. “Two hours. Tops.”

Lord Elrond laughs. “Then we shall take advantage of the respite while we have it; come, my friends. I have a meal laid out, and we shall speak of what has transpired since last we met.” Bilbo and Dis and the bodyguards follow him up to the Last Homely House and a chance to sit on something which isn’t moving – traveling is never quite as much fun as it sounds.

*

“I wish, first of all, to thank you, Bilbo, on behalf of my daughter and my people,” Elrond says when they are all settled about the table, with full plates and glasses.

Bilbo shrugs. “I did nothing that anyone would not have done,” he replies.

“And yet _anyone_ did not do it,” Elrond says a little tartly. “Bilbo Baggins gave the elves the secret of the herbs which grant fertility, and no one else; and by your aid we have gained the ability to revive our dying race. For we _were_ dying, Bilbo, though we hid it well from all other races; even the wood-elves have had fewer and fewer children, and here in Rivendell there have been only three born since Arwen’s birth.”

Dis gapes. “So few?” she whispers. “Even we under the mountains have had better luck.”

Elrond nods to her. “So few, indeed; and every year those weary in soul go West to rest their hearts forever. We dwindled – we dwindle still, but now there is hope before us, and the Ring-bearer has borne it to us. So I thank you, Bilbo, for the life of my people.”

Bilbo flushes pink. “ _Tell_ me I haven’t just gotten another title,” he begs. Dis smirks; Elrond shakes his head.

“Would that I could, o Bilbo Life-giver, savior of the elven race,” he says, and Bilbo puts his head in his hands and makes a faint whimpering noise. Dis pats him gently on the shoulder.

“You do seem to collect titles like a dwarf collects gems,” she says, grinning down at the back of his head. “If with less joy.”

Elrond shakes his head at them, and pours tea. “We shall tell tales of the reluctant hero Bilbo Baggins until the stars fall, and yet our tales cannot encompass all that he is,” he remarks, and Dis gives him a wry grin.

“We, too, tell tales of him under the mountains; and yet our tales are but shadows of the truth, though our finest scribes prepare them.”

Bilbo is bidding fair to spontaneously combust; to his relief, the embarrassing conversation is interrupted by a wild whoop and the thud of running feet, and Bilbo sits up in time to see Elladan and Elrohir sprint past with the children hard on their heels. They are gone into the bushes again before any of the adults can react.

Bilbo begins to giggle helplessly. Elrond shakes his head and smiles. “It seems you were correct, Bilbo; Lady Dis, you have over-estimated the children.”

Dis sighs. “Well, I suppose it is only natural for children to be a little rowdy,” she says merrily. There is a yelp from the bushes, and then a chorus of giggles. Frodo sticks his head out of the bushes for a moment, looks up at the adults, all of whom are grinning widely, and winks; then he ducks out of sight again, and someone gives a great whooping laugh which ends in violent rustling.

“My shrubbery may never be the same again,” Elrond observes.

“Let us hope they did not find the formal gardens,” Bilbo agrees.

The rustling fades as the children move away, and the adults sit quietly, craning their ears. There is a faint but energetic splash, followed by more whooping. Elrond raises an eyebrow. “They have found the water gardens.”

“I suppose I should go and put a stop to it,” Dis says reluctantly.

“I think,” Bilbo says, with a broad and mischievous grin, “that the children are getting along just fine.”

Elrond grins in return. “It will be good practice for my sons, should they ever find women who can put up with them, to ride herd on your young ones,” he agrees. “Perhaps we should adjourn to the library.”

“A splendid idea,” Bilbo agrees, and they abandon the balcony for the peace of the inner halls.


	13. Concerning Elves

Thrain is not expecting to really enjoy Rivendell, though he is willing to take the experience as a good lesson in diplomacy and politics. Gimli notwithstanding, dwarves do not, as a rule, like elves, and spending the summer in a whole city full of them sounds distinctly unpleasant to Thrain. He doesn’t let any of this show to Frodo and Sam, of course, who are ecstatic at the opportunity; hobbits have none of the dwarven distrust for the elven race, and Thrain would not ruin Frodo’s happiness with his own doubts. Such cruelty would be unbecoming a king – and a brother.

And in any case, Thrain will have Bissem and Laney alongside him, and anything is easier to face with friends. So he puts a good front up, and tries his best to convince Bilbo that he is looking forward to the trip, and spends as much time as he can on the way to Rivendell talking to Gimli son of Gloin about elves. Gimli is happy to speak for hours about elves in general and _his_ elf in particular, and in between the rhapsodic descriptions of Legolas’ hair and eyes and archery and grace, Gimli does give Thrain some very good ideas of what an elven stronghold looks like, and what elven manners and customs will be. Thrain cannot help hoping, however, that when he is old enough to fall in love he won’t be _quite_ as terrifyingly sappy as Gimli is.

Rivendell is not _quite_ what Thrain was expecting. Oh, it’s as Gimli described it: peaceful and full of trees and gardens, with elves ghosting here and there looking solemn and proud and as though they’ve never done a day’s work in their lives.

But then there are the twins. Elladan and Elrohir are nothing like the elves Thrain has heard described by his uncle, or his parents, or even Bilbo. They are unrepentant hooligans, so far as elves go, or at least that is Thrain’s working theory after spending three hours with them.

Well, really, even Thrain son of Fili knows better than to twit Glorfindel Balrog-Slayer about…well…anything. Or to start a footrace in a formal garden, much less to go tearing past Lord Elrond, Prince Bilbo, and Lady Dis while they discuss important adult matters. Thrain, in the portion of his mind which is not busy with the race, is bracing for the bellows of fury which are _sure_ to follow them soon…only they do not. Thrain forgets, for a little while, that Bilbo and Grandma Dis are anywhere around, and devotes himself wholly to the unfamiliar amusement of roughhousing with two elves, two hobbits, a dwobbit, and Bissem.

They all end up drenched and muddy and starving, hours later, when they are finally summoned in to dinner. Thrain decides, as he cleans up in the disturbingly airy room he’s been assigned, that elves aren’t _nearly_ as bad as Uncle Thorin makes them out to be.

*

Laney isn’t sure what to expect of Rivendell. Oh, she knows that her father’s side of the family has all of the hereditary distrust of elves, not helped at all by the looming proximity of the Greenwood and its prickly inhabitants to the Lonely Mountain; and hobbits are predisposed to like _everyone_ , including elves and Men and dwarves, and frankly if an orc held still long enough a hobbit would probably fuss at it with a handkerchief and then feed it dinner (or supper, or tea, or elevensies…), but Laney is not a dwarf, nor yet is she a hobbit.

She is a dwobbit, and she is determined not to form any opinion of elves until she has met them herself.

Lord Elrond is…regal, even more so than King Thorin, with the weight of thousands of years behind his polite smiles and straight bearing. He’s also very tall, especially to a dwobbit girl who’s never seen one of the Big Folk this close before. Why, she barely comes to his waist! But he is also kind, she sees as he greets Prince Bilbo and Lady Dis, and has given some thought to making their party comfortable. So that is a point in his favor.

Elladan and Elrohir are nothing like their father. Oh, they are tall and dark-haired and dark-eyed, with pointed ears and graceful movements, but it is like comparing oak and willow: both are trees, but they are no more alike than that, either in appearance or in uses. Elladan and Elrohir – it is impossible to think of them separately, for they are such perfect mirrors of each other – are as full of laughter and mischief as their father is of nobility and courtesy. They laugh easily, joke constantly, cannot be contained or controlled save by their father’s voice alone.

Laney isn’t sure she likes them, necessarily; oh, that first day she is pleased enough to play at tag with them and the boys, to laugh and splash in the water gardens and go in to dinner with her braids dripping down her cheek; but she is not accustomed to such boisterous amusements, and they pall swiftly.

She is trailing along after the boys a few days later, wishing she had something else to do, when an elf comes up beside her. She’s pretty sure he was the one who was standing with Lord Elrond when they arrived, but she has some trouble telling elves apart: even beside their being so far above eye level, they’re all beardlessly androgynous, and it’s not as though she’s been introduced to enough of them to actually have learned what _their_ marks of male and female might be.

“I am Lindir,” the elf introduces himself – she’s almost sure he’s male.

“A good day to you,” she returns politely. “I am Eglantine daughter of Bofur.”

“It is my honor to meet you,” he says, and cracks a tiny smile. “Prince Bilbo expressed to Lord Elrond his worry that perhaps the young gentlemen’s amusements would not please you, and suggested that perhaps you would enjoy seeing our carpenters at their vocation.”

Laney’s jaw drops. “You have _carpenters_?” she says, then blushes; but it’s hard to imagine these regal, uptight creatures getting their long hair covered in sawdust and their pretty clothes all dirty.

“Indeed,” Lindir replies, and she thinks there’s humor in his expression. “Would it please you to meet them?”

“It would indeed,” Laney says decisively, “and I thank you for your courtesy and kindness.”

“It is no trouble at all,” Lindir assures her, and leads her off down a series of hallways to – wonder of wonders! – a woodshop. There are sawhorses and worktables and recognizable tools, even if all of them have leaves and flowers carved into their handles, and the white-haired, ancient-looking elf at one of the tables rises as Lindir leads her in.

“So this is the dwobbit lass who works with wood,” he says, and Lindir bows to him.

“Eglantine daughter of Bofur, may I present to you Tinde Cururyn, best of the woodworkers of Rivendell.”

Laney bows deeply, as though she is meeting a king. “It is my honor to meet you,” she says, and Tinde laughs and gestures for Laney to approach.

“We are both woodworkers – let there be no fawning and bowing here. Now, tell me what you know of wood, daughter of dwarves and hobbits, and I shall tell you what the elves know of it, and perhaps we shall both learn a little.”

Laney doesn’t even notice when Lindir leaves, so caught up in conversation with Tinde is she. She goes back to the woodshop almost every day after that, and spends long hours perched on a high stool beside Tinde’s chair, watching clever ancient hands coax beauty out of wood.

(She learns that Tinde is female completely by accident, and blushes through her apologies for misgendering her; but Tinde only laughs and replies that she would not have guessed that Laney was female but for Lindir’s introduction, and so that is all well in the end.)

By the time they leave Rivendell, Laney has gained a friend and decided that elves aren’t that bad, really. Different, yes, certainly. But so are hobbits different from dwarves, and dwarves from hobbits; different doesn’t mean _bad_. And as long as everyone can find something to agree on – the beauty of the wood beneath their hands, the jokes Elladan and Elrohir tell, the good food each day and the necessity of peace – well, it’ll all work out one way or another, as far as Laney is concerned.


	14. Letters III

My dearest Legolas,

The more you write of your father’s temper, the less I like of it. What cause has he to hate the hobbit folk? Myself, he may hate an it pleases him, for I am a dwarf of Durin’s house and in my blood is the stone of the mountains, and I shall not stop loving you though every elf in Middle-Earth, aye, and those who have gone West as well, should stand between us and cry me nay. But hobbits! I cannot comprehend it. Were it not for Bilbo, your Greenwood would be as murky as a torchless mine: but for his marriage to King Thorin, Gandalf would not have been near enough to detect the foulness in your forest for years to come, if ever! And that is without mentioning the whole debacle of the Ring, nor yet this knowledge of herbs which Bilbo has given to the elves in repayment of the debt which the gwedhi-cuil spell cost him. No, I cannot understand it.

Tell me, I beg you, that you are well and hale and your father does not abuse you with his harsh words, for not for all the mithril in Moria would I have you bear any pain for love of me. Tell me that the forest is beautiful, that there are squirrels and singing birds and will be blooming flowers come the spring; tell me of the glories which are made when snow falls upon the branches and ice makes sculptures of the trees. Or if you cannot tell me such glad tidings, then tell me of the things which trouble you, and what I can do, I will do to ease your pain.

My own tidings are glad, and I shall share them in the hopes that they will lift your spirits, my muhudel. There are six and twenty dwobbit lads and lasses who have come to me and spoken of their desire to leave Belegost when I go; among them are several smiths, a carpenter, some weavers, and a number of skilled gardeners, as well as miners and potters and stonemasons. So we shall be well set to build a city in the White Mountains, if King Aragorn is still minded to let us settle there.

I have enclosed arm-guards, which while they are perhaps not entirely practical for shooting, do match the hair-clips I sent you last winter, and I hope they might be considered appropriate for court wear. I did not do the leather-work – I can see your expression from here, my love, so do not think I have turned tanner as well as smith! – but the hobbit who did it is as skilled a craftswoman as I could have wished, and desired that I should send you word of her good wishes as well as my own love. So there you have it: Petunia of Belegost sends her regards.

_Hotukel_ , I miss you more with each winter we spend apart, and every letter you send with news of your Greenwood makes me wish more ardently to take you away from that uncomfortable situation and never again let you fight a battle without me by your side. Until that day – and I shall pray to all the Valar that it comes soon indeed! – I remain, as always,

Your Gimli

*

_Bright star, steadfast as stone, my dearest love,_

_I tell you it is the memory of your smile which holds me through the long winters, the thought of your kisses which lets me smile when my father rages, the strength in your arms which bears me up when I begin to give in to despair. Do not say you do not fight beside me: if it were not for you, I should have lost this fight long ago, and become something as like my father as two peas in their pod, as bitter and as hateful as he has become in these last years. It is your love which sustains me, even as your words in Mordor gave me hope; never think that merely because you are in Belegost you are not also and always beside me._

_Would that I could send you such glad tidings as you have given me: six and twenty dwobbits is a goodly number, and I had not expected dwarves of Erebor – as you say, of all places! – but if they will be civil and courteous with us, why then I shall welcome them with open arms. Let any who wish to live in peace and make common cause with us come to our city, when it stands, and be welcome there; let our new home be a haven for the lost and the lonely, those who find their own homes have become as unwelcoming as mine has these past years._

_And indeed I can send some good tidings: I have written to Aragorn in Gondor, and received from him only this past week a reply. He writes that we are welcome to settle in the western end of the White Mountains, provided we do not encroach on the land which Rohan claims, and that we sign binding treaties of peace and free trade with Rohan and Gondor. I have sent back our agreement, for the terms are easy and please me well, and I did not think they would displease you either._

_Would that the rest of my news were so pleasant. My father has not broken free from the grip of his madness; there is no stone to break nor ring to melt to bring him to his senses. And because he is King, there are those who hear his ravings and believe them, who begin to mutter against dwarves and hobbits and Men as though only elves of all the races were still of the Light; and more, that only we of the Greenwood are fit to carry the banner of the elven race. I do not like these murmurs, and I speak against them when I hear them, as do those who follow me and are my friends. Still it is ever impossible to quench the flames of rumor when they have begun to spread, especially when they come from so potent a source as my own father._

_And then again – and oh, my star, this worries me sorely – there are those who say, quietly and when they do not think that I can hear, that my father has outlived his kingship; that he should step aside for younger blood, and that if he will not step aside, he should be convinced to do so. As yet these murmurs are few and far between, and so soft that I should almost disbelieve my own ears when I hear them; yet they are there._

_Do you hate me, my dearest, that I still love my father? For he is my father, and my king, and I owe him my loyalty while I am his heir and live in his kingdom. I cannot and will not condone any action which would lead to his overthrow, no, not though he be mad entirely. He is the King of the Greenwood until his death or his retirement to the West; I will not see the bad old days come again, when elf warred against elf and blood was spilled to overflow the oceans. I cannot, will not, must not let those days come again._

_Tell me, I beg you, that the day when the dwobbits are of age comes swiftly apace, for I do not know how much longer this…this simmering tension which so fills my father’s kingdom will remain a simmer. When it begins to boil, I must leave: I will take with me all those who wish to see my father overthrown and will follow me, and leave Argonel to be my father’s heir. He will hate me for leaving – will see it as treason, I know – but it is not treason, cannot be treason, to take from within the kingdom those who would tear it apart. The White Mountains are far enough from the Greenwood that our kingdoms will never meet, nor trade; and perhaps with my constant presence gone, my father’s madness will begin to fade._

_Oh, Gimli, my star, my stone, I miss you so. I count the days until the summer brings my love again to me; I count the years until we may go south and make a new life together. Send me as many gifts as please you, for I wear them as armor against my father’s hatred, and thus armored in your love, there is nothing which can do me harm._

_I love you, my dearest Gimli._

_-Legolas_


	15. Growing Pains

Frodo is sixteen when his growth spurt finally hits, taking him from childish pudginess to gangly clumsiness over the course of a summer. It’s rather embarrassing, and more so because _Sam_ , of course, had to hit _his_ growth spurt early, and so he’s already tall and burly as all the Gamgees are. Nothing like a dwarf, of course, but for a hobbit he’s quite respectably broad across the shoulders.

It’s rather unpleasant being suddenly so clumsy, so ill-fitting in his own skin, but Bilbo assures Frodo that he’ll grow into it soon enough: a few years and these will be nothing but memories, and fond ones at that. Frodo trusts Uncle Bilbo, of course, but it’s a bit irritating to bung one’s elbows on walls and hit one’s head on overhangs that _weren’t there_ before – or at least were higher relative to one’s elbows and head. The jigs and games which Bilbo insists on teaching Frodo help quite a bit, though, and as the months pass he grows accustomed to his new height and begins to fill out again, to gain proper hobbitish weight.

More distressing is his realization, halfway through the summer, that what he feels for Samwise Gamgee is rather more than friendship – that his faint, half-remembered dreams that wake him panting and embarrassed in the night are _not_ all about Rosie, who is beginning to grow into her early hints of beauty, or about the dwobbits or dwarves of Belegost, but most often about Sam’s broad shoulders and gentle eyes.

It’s not that men who prefer men are unheard of in the Shire – look at Uncle Bilbo, for goodness’ sake! – but Frodo had always assumed he’d marry some sweet plump hobbit lass and have a dozen children to fill Bag End with sound. And, to be fair, he _does_ dream of Rosie, her hair bound up and a stick-sword in her hand and a fierce expression on her pretty face, but he does not wake from dreams of her _nearly_ so often as those of Sam – and he dreams of no other lasses at all.

Normally, Frodo brings all his little hurts and worries to his uncle, but this one…well, he’d just as soon keep this little worry all to himself. He’s pretty sure Sam is gone on Rosie, after all, and there’s no way in the world that Frodo would interfere with his friends’ happiness. And he might find someone else – you never know.

*

Thrain begins to hit puberty in his mid thirties, a little later than is usual for most dwarves, but just about average for Durin’s line. It’s not so noticeable for a dwarf as it is for a hobbit – he has watched Frodo gain height and heard his voice break, noticed the new way his little brother carries himself – since dwarves start growing their beards at around three, and Thrain’s is already full and neatly braided. He’s rather proud of it, as it happens, and takes pains to make sure it is oiled and combed and has the braids which show his line and family tidily displayed.

For dwarves, puberty means little in the way of physical changes – a slight deepening of the voice, a minor broadening of the shoulders, little else – but the internal changes are substantial, for it is only after one’s full growth that one can begin to feel the deep bindings of love which are the longed-for foundation of dwarven marriages.

Thrain is a little relieved, honestly, that he does not wake one morning to find his deep friendship with Bissem or Laney turned to love. Bissem is to be his Chief Advisor, best friend and conscience and voice of reason for all his reign, and that is harder between married couples than between friends – imagine going to bed with the person you’ve just had a long discussion of taxation schemes with! Though Bilbo and Uncle Thorin share ruling duties, it is Balin who plays adversary and brings up the uncomfortable topics, so that Bilbo and Thorin need never go to bed angry with each other. And Laney, who will be coming of age soon…well, she’s planning to leave, isn’t she? To go off with Gimli on his grand adventure to found a city. Thrain falling in love with her would be the sort of stuff tragic romances are made of. Thrain has no desire to play the lead role in a tragic romance, any more than Laney cares to fall in love with the future king of Belegost and give up her dreams of travel.

*

Thorin and Bilbo watch their wards come into their full growth with amusement and sympathy. Though their own youths lie many years behind, and Bilbo’s hair has lines of white within the gold, and Thorin’s beard is streaked with silver, still they are not old, and they remember being young and strong and full of life and energy. Bilbo does not ask why Frodo looks like he has not slept, once or twice a week when he comes to the table flushed and bleary-eyed; Thorin does not hound his great-nephew about his relationship with his friends. There is still time before the boys reach their majorities, still time to teach them and guide them into adulthood, even if their shoulders are as broad and their voices as deep as they will ever be.

They sit together in the evening, when the boys are abed – and whether they are asleep or not is their own business, and Thorin and Bilbo will not open the doors to their bedrooms and wake them – and drink sweet rich hobbit moonshine and watch the fire. Their sitting room has grown more comfortable over the years, Bilbo’s hobbit sensibilities insisting on comfortable squishy chairs and a broad overstuffed sofa, Thorin’s dwarven love of beauty decorating the walls with hangings and metalwork. Now they sit side by side on the battered sofa, Bilbo nestled against his husband’s side, watching the fire flicker and speaking now and again in low voices so as not to disrupt the silence.

“We have done a great deal in our years,” Bilbo says softly as the flames dance.

“We shall do more yet, my heart,” Thorin murmurs. “We are not yet gone to the stone and our ancestors.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I should prefer to avoid any other adventures,” Bilbo replies. “I am too old for questing, and my bones ache in the cold.”

“That is not quite what I meant, husband mine,” Thorin laughs. “Ring-bearer, Dragonsbane, Life-giver; you have accumulated enough titles to satisfy even the greediest of dwarves, and I am content to be the Peacemaker and the first king of rebuilt Belegost. No, I do not mean that we should go off to slay the cold-drakes in the far north or re-discover the cities of Men which have fallen into ruin. There is enough to do here.”

“So there is,” Bilbo agrees sleepily. “There are children to raise, and old ones to see to rest; there are gardens to tend, and mines to dig, and metal to shape, and cloth to weave. I have yet to teach you to dance a proper jig; I have not yet quite abandoned that quest, you know!”

Thorin nuzzles the top of his husband’s head and rumbles a laugh. “I shall never be able to dance a jig, as you well know, fleet-footed hobbit of mine. But we have made a new thing, here in Belegost, a good thing, two races living together and loving and raising bright-eyed children, and now it is our task to keep this new thing alive until our children can take up that burden.”

Bilbo nods and turns his face up for a kiss. “That will be the best epitaph for us,” he agrees. “Let my titles be forgotten; let me be remembered as Bilbo Baggins of Belegost and the Shire, who brought dwobbits into the world. That will content me well.”

Thorin grins down at him and kisses Bilbo’s nose. “Enough melancholy,” he declares. “We will not be given to the stone for many years yet, husband of mine, and until then I shall not fret myself about my epitaph – not when there are fine beautiful hobbits to carry to bed!”

Bilbo glances about the room mischievously. “Where are these fine beautiful hobbits of yours, my dear? Should I be worried?”

Thorin laughs aloud, the sound echoing from the stone, and stands, scooping Bilbo up over his shoulder and bearing him triumphantly across the room. Bilbo muffles his own laugh in Thorin’s hair, and their bedroom door shuts on Bilbo’s giggling demands for Thorin to put him _down_!


	16. Questing for Dummies

A few days before Frodo’s twenty-second birthday, Bilbo leans back from the table on which they are going over the genealogy of the Baggins family – an involved and lengthy process, given the incredible complexity of the Shire’s genealogies – and sighs.

“Uncle?”

“I overheard you and Thrain working on one of the _Sagas_ yesterday. Dragonsbane, I think it was.”

“It’s a good song,” Frodo says. “And I like learning it with Thrain; we don’t do as much together now that he’s shadowing Uncle Thorin more often.”

“A point,” Bilbo concedes. “I’m glad you lads get on so well.” He sighs again. “What I wanted to say…well, I just don’t want you getting the wrong ideas about adventures and quests and whatnot. I know they sound exciting to a young lad – goodness knows when I was your age I hung on my mother’s tales of her adventures, begged her to tell them so often I’m surprised she had the patience for it.”

Frodo nods. “It’s…I’ve heard all the songs about Durin the Deathless and the great heroes of the dwarves, and Uncle, it’s really nice to hear about a hobbit doing something no one else could do, none of the Big Folk or the warriors or anyone.”

Bilbo smiles a little. “I shan’t tell you it’s wrong to like that, either, my lad; it is good to know there are things we little folk can do that elves and Men and dwarves cannot, and though I’ve no love for all the praise, I _am_ proud of what I’ve done to make our world a safer place.” He shakes his head. “It’s not that I don’t want you listening to the tales – even telling them yourself, as I’ve heard you doing with the fauntlings in the Shire. But I wanted to make sure you knew the truth about it before you got old enough to start thinking about maybe going off on an adventure of your own.”

Frodo leans forwards excitedly; Bilbo shakes his head again.

“It’s nothing like the songs and tales, lad. Sleeping on the ground is cold and hard, even with a bedroll – you can try it yourself if you please, it’s still warm enough at night that it won’t fret me if you spend a night or two outdoors. Travel rations are never big enough, nor frequent enough, and you’re lucky if you have something you don’t mind eating. The trip over the Mistys, back when I was first married, we had dwarven trail rations, and you must never tell Thorin, but I never want to eat those again: dry and unappetizing, no spices whatsoever. For the Ring-quest we had _lembas_ , which are elven; they taste good the first few days, and then you start wishing for _anything_ else, but when you’re on the move, you almost never have time to cook a decent meal.”

He thinks a minute, then shrugs. “You’re sore all the time, from the ground and from walking and riding – and though we’re an active folk, playing about in the Shire is _nothing_ like walking all day, every day, for weeks on end. Our feet are tough, but stones and thorns _can_ bother us, and they will; I’m just as grateful I was carried through most of Mordor, for the stones there are obsidian, and I had a taste of that when I smashed the Arkenstone: it’ll cut even our feet to ribbons easily enough.”

Frodo is looking a little ill at this point, and Bilbo pats him gently on the shoulder. “It was worth it, every time, but never let anyone tell you that adventures are all fun and games – or even all action. Most of every adventure I’ve been on was a lot of very boring walking, and then sheer terror every now and then. I don’t recommend _either_ as a vacation!”

Frodo shakes his head, breaking into laughter, which is what Bilbo had intended. “I’d never thought of it like that,” he confesses. “The _Sagas_ never talk about food, or how you get from one place to another; it’s all just ‘Forward the far-sighted / advanced from his allies, Perceiving the presence / of orc hordes uncounted.’ It doesn’t say what he was walking on, or anything like that.”

Bilbo chuckles. “The Dead Marshes, actually; I think they’re mentioned a few stanzas earlier. And you’re right: they were _not_ easy to cross. Rather the opposite, actually.” He stares into the fire for a moment, with an odd expression on his face. “There fell many fair warriors,” he says softly, still looking at the fire, “tall and solemn as the oak tree, and as strong; and yet they fell, and the waters covered them, and they lie crowned with stars until the end of days.”

Frodo leans against his Uncle’s shoulder comfortingly. “You never have to go back,” he says, and Bilbo shakes off the odd mood and grins down at his ward.

“So I don’t; and there’s no reason for you ever to go there either, so I need not worry that you’ll be as disturbed by the Dead as I was.”

Frodo nods. “Thank you,” he says after a moment. “I hadn’t thought of any of the realities of adventuring – but you’re right, there’s more to it than the fun bits. I might tell Sam what you’ve told me, if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all, my lad; I was rather hoping you would. He might take it better coming from you than from old fusty Bilbo; and if you like, when Sam is here for the party you might get him to ask Gimli a few questions. I know Gimli would be glad to answer.”

“I think I will,” says Frodo thoughtfully. “Thank you, Uncle.”

*

Frodo has his full height, quite a respectable one for a hobbit – though Thrain will always be taller, and takes some pleasure in teasing his little brother about that – and he is a bright-eyed, clever lad, and Bilbo is proud of him. More than proud: Bilbo sees the care Frodo takes with his friends and acquaintances, his ever-present courtesy and intense interest in the small triumphs and tragedies of everyday life, and knows that Frodo will be a good Thain, as good as Bilbo ever was.

The party is great fun, though it’s smaller than some birthday parties are: Frodo wants only his closest friends and family there, and Bilbo has of course obliged. Sam and Rosie are wide-eyed for their second visit to Belegost, and spend hours wandering its halls with Frodo playing eager tour guide. For the party itself, Bombur goes all out, and Bilbo joins him in the kitchens, putting together a selection of Frodo’s favorite foods – and, at Frodo’s request, Sam’s beloved apple dumplings and the cranberry scones that are Rosie’s especial craving, and the sweet sugar candy which Thrain refuses to admit he eats every chance he gets. Bilbo makes those himself, grinning over the batter and syrup as he considers his ward’s kindness.

Frodo’s gifts to his friends and family are small again, as befits one not yet grown to his majority, but well-thought-out. For Sam, who has definitely inherited his family’s love of the garden, a set of tools made by Thorin himself, with Sam’s initials carved into the wooden handles by Frodo; Sam clutches them so hard the initials leave imprints in his hands. For Rosie, who is beginning to show signs of being the best cook in two counties, a set of spices from Rivendell and Erebor, brought in on Gimli’s caravans, neatly labeled and packed in a solid, sturdy box. For Thrain, a set of fine jeweler’s tools from Erebor, specially ordered – made by Frerin, and with a little note to his grand-nephew included in the box. For Thorin, the very first copy of _The Saga of Thorin Peacemaker_ , Ori’s newest work, written in Frodo’s own hand. And for Bilbo, beads, slightly lopsided but still well-made, and the tale of Frodo’s adventures with wearing boots so that he could join Thorin and Thrain at the forges.

Bilbo puts the beads in his hair immediately, and hugs his ward with fierce affection.


	17. Preparing to Leave

Gimli is not expecting much from Erebor itself, that summer; certainly he is expecting the time he spends in Dale to be the best part of his year, the part he gets to spend beside his own true love, but Erebor itself has little attraction for him. He remembers far too strongly a dragon made of smoke which tried to turn his Prince to Darkness; and even if the dragon is long gone, Gimli’s memory remains.

This year Erebor holds a surprise for him, though. In the final week, as he is preparing to leave, shepherding the merchants as they make their final purchases and rounding up the guards from inns and families, he gets a message from his second-in-command that there are six dwarves who wish to speak with him. He makes the time, somehow – the final week in Erebor is always painfully hectic – and that evening finds him sitting in a private room in a discreet inn with six female dwarves.

“We know you’re busy,” says the oldest-looking one, “so we’ll keep this short and sweet – and dinner’s on us, too.”

“My thanks,” says Gimli, and settles back in his chair.

“I am Lin daughter of Morumil,” the spokeswoman says. “My companions are Fenn daughter of Heresthen, Mida daughter of Kennar, Giw daughter of Parufer, San daughter of Ellimor, and Kir daughter of Ganthur.”

Gimli nods greeting to all of them, reflecting that he has begun to get used to the flower names of the hobbits and dwobbits of Belegost; the short names of proper dwarves are odd to his ear.

“We would like to join your caravan,” Lin continues, “as guards and merchants, until such time as you go south to found a new city, as we have heard is your intent. We wish to emigrate to that new city.”

Gimli keeps his jaw from dropping, but it’s a close thing. “You do know that half the new city’s people will be elves,” he says after a moment. “And that I am to be married to their Prince.”

“We know,” Lin agrees. “We have no quarrel with elves; we shall be as peaceful as you please. We wish only to leave Erebor, and to go somewhere where we are not known, where we may live as we please.”

“We are not criminals,” Fenn adds quickly. “You may ask the Guard, if you wish to; I and Giw are trained recruits in the Guard, and our companions are jewelers and smiths. We merely find that Erebor does not please us, and we think your new city will be a safer and happier place.” The other dwarves nod vigorously.

Gimli considers, for a long moment, why six female dwarves might want to leave Erebor for a city full of elves, but in the end he supposes it’s really none of his business. “I will confirm what you have told me with the Guard,” he says at last, “but provided that you are as you have presented yourselves, I have no objection to your joining my caravans, nor yet to your coming south to the new city when the time comes. It will be soon – a few years, perhaps, but no longer.”

“We are pleased to hear it,” Lin says quietly. “And, when we have reached the new city and built ourselves new homes, I will be pleased to tell you, Gimli son of Gloin, why it is that we wish to leave the Lonely Mountain.”

“I look forward to the tale,” Gimli tells her, and they are agreed.

* 

“Must you go?” Thrain asks, and hates the way his voice catches in the middle.

Laney leans against his shoulder reassuringly, but her voice is firm when she replies. “Yes, I must. If I stay in Belegost I think I’ll go mad from all the conflicting expectations. You know Mother tried to make me take up sewing? She thinks if I just start doing something ‘properly hobbitish’ I’ll settle down and not be so rebellious anymore. As though carpentry is just a…a phase. A whim.”

“Carpentry is your _craft_ ,” Thrain says, appalled. “Anyone with eyes can see that.”

Bissem, behind them braiding Laney’s hair, says, “Aunt Columbine doesn’t quite understand about crafts. Not her fault; she’s a hobbit, not a dwarf. And Laney’s little brothers have perfectly respectable, normal dwarvish crafts; I think that’s easier for Aunt Columbine to understand.”

“And they’re boys,” Laney says, with an edge of bitterness. “Even hobbit boys are allowed to do odd things. It’s just the girls who are supposed to be…mothers and wives and seamstresses and cooks, and not much else.”

“Gardeners,” Bissem says mildly.

“All hobbits are gardeners,” Laney retorts. “Mother would be _much_ happier if that was my craft.”

Thrain sighs. “I know you’re right, but I will miss you so.”

“So will I,” Bissem adds. “It won’t feel right without you around.”

“I’ll write – and you’d better write back!” Laney says. “And it’s not for a few years yet. Gimli says he’s waiting till enough of us who want to go are of age to make a good-sized party; and then he’s also waiting for word from Legolas.”

Thrain grimaces. “He’s told Uncle Thorin some of what Legolas has written to him. It…it sounds _bad_ in the Greenwood. Worse than it was in Erebor before Uncle Thorin left, even.”

Bissem makes a sound of surprise. “I didn’t know it was getting _that_ bad. Balin just says ‘political unrest’ when I ask.”

Thrain shrugs. “Gimli asked Uncle Thorin to keep it quiet. No reason for all of Belegost and the Shire to know what’s going on. But you’re to be my advisor, and Laney will be living with the elves soon enough, so you might as well know. Apparently Thranduil has started to make noises about accusing Legolas of treason. Gimli says he thinks Legolas will hang on as long as possible, but when it’s time to go, it’ll be fast.”

Laney puts her head against her knees. “I’m already half packed,” she admits quietly. “When Gimli says it’s time, I can be out the door in half an hour if I have to be.”

“Not _that_ fast,” Thrain says. “You’ll have time to tell us goodbye.”

Laney sits up and turns so she can look both of her friends in the eye. “And I will,” she promises. “I may be going away from Belegost, but I’m not leaving you. You’re my best friends, now and forever.”

“Now and forever,” Thrain and Bissem chorus softly. Then Bissem sits up straight, looking past them down the mountain.

“Hey, isn’t that the caravan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I'm really sorry about this, but I am going out of town for the better part of a week. The next chapter will go up on Saturday the 30th. See you then!


	18. Letters IV

My Legolas,

I hope that all is still as well as it was when I left you this summer. Here in Belegost, the dwobbits have begun to reach their full maturity – I know that fifty-two years does not seem enough to an elf, but they are as lively as hobbits and as sturdy as dwarves. Tell me, are there more children in the Greenwood now that the herbs are common knowledge, or is the tension there removing all desire to bear children from your countrymen? I know few dwarves would choose to bear children on the brink of what might be a war, and I cannot ascribe less love of their children to elves.

I am all on edge for your safety. I have sent this with our fastest raven, and asked that he wait for your reply – I know you will see to it that he is well cared for. Please write back soon, even if only to tell me that all is still as it was when I left. And know that when you are ready, so too am I: we wait only upon your word.

With all my love,

Gimli

*

_Gimli,_

_It is now. I and those who follow me must leave with the first hint of spring; I cannot keep the Greenwood at peace any longer. Argonel, thank the Valar, has been working with me – those who follow my father, follow Argonel as well – and between the two of us we can keep everyone from each other’s throats until spring, but no farther than that. As soon as the leaves begin to bud, I and a thousand elves will leave the Greenwood, never to return._

_Gimli, I shall never see my Greenwood again – never dance beneath its boughs, never see it white in winter and green in summer, aflame with flowers in spring and with the turning leaves in autumn. I shall never dance in the festivals again, nor shoot a bow alongside half my old comrades. I shall never see my father again, and though he rails against me and calls me such names as I cannot bear to hear, still he is my father and I shall lose a part of my heart when I leave him behind for the last time._

_It is only the thought of you waiting for me, my strength, my stone, which lets me think of leaving – that and the knowledge that if I do not go, brother will fight against brother as in the bad old days before peace came, and the trees will be watered with blood. I cannot, must not let that happen, but – I have lived here seven hundred years and more, my heart. I have seen half of these trees grow from seed to age, have climbed them and danced beneath them. I know every inch of every passageway in my father’s palace; I know each path and trail through the forest as well as I know your face. I know that I must leave, but…_

_But I must, and that is the end of it; and at the end of my journey will be my beloved waiting for me, and a new forest to learn, a new home to build. That is what I must think of, for if I think of anything else, I shall begin to weep, and if I begin, I do not know how I shall stop again._

_I shall see you this summer, albeit far from either of our current homes; and together we will found a new home for both of us, and I shall never leave your side again, my star._

_With all my love,_

_Legolas_

*

My love,

I know there is little I can say to ease your pain, and that I can say will be better said in person, so instead I will merely assure you that I and my followers will leave Belegost with the first growth of spring. We have Prince Bilbo’s blessing, and King Thorin’s, and we will be well provisioned; and I have learnt to lead a traveling group well enough these last years with the caravans.

We will likely reach the site of our new city before you do – we have less ground to cover, and flatter too. Once we do, I shall do my best to do a survey of the lands which King Aragorn has granted to us – thank you for sending that map along, by the way – and begin marking out the area which seems best for us to inhabit. I promise that my followers will take no living trees to build with, until your elves can arrive and tell us which trees may fall without distressing you. Truthfully, we will likely begin to carve ourselves housing in the stone of the mountains, but enough of the dwobbits have expressed a desire for windows and air that there will be buildings above the ground as well as below.

I think it will be best if we all live near each other, not divided up with this quarter for elves, that for dwobbits, and another for the fullblooded dwarves (all seven of us!); so I shall have my people lay out a city where we may live side-by-side, as friends and allies should, and begin to learn to know each other better.

I think you will like the dwobbits, my heart. They are calmer than dwarves tend to be – hot tempers come with the beards, I think! – and they love food as much as hobbits do, most of them. They will be glad to feed your people until they burst, so do not worry overmuch about provisions past what it will take you to get here – and do not fret that we shall exhaust our own rations; Prince Bilbo has opened the Baggins warehouses to us, within reason, and we shall have as much food as we can fit in the wagons.

Oh, it is hard not to try to comfort you, though I know the words will be as worthless as sand. Would that I were beside you, to lend you my strength and to protect you from all ills. I know you are a doughty warrior; do not doubt that I know your own strength and valor. But to see you wounded and not be able to defend you, that is a hard thing, and I would stand between you and all comers if it were possible. Yet I know I cannot defend you from your father and King, and so I shall not even threaten to come to the Greenwood and bash his fool head into a wall, for I know that it would hurt you if I hurt him.

This summer we will be far from all this strife. Think of the new forests to explore! Perhaps there will be trees which do not grow in the Greenwood, or new types of flowers; perhaps there will be animals which do not venture so far north.

And always I will be beside you, my heart, my love. In that, I hope, you can take comfort; for once we are together again, not all the Valar themselves could take me from your side, and I shall love you with all my heart until the day the stone takes me.

-Your Gimli


	19. Gimli Departs

All of Belegost, of course, turns out to see Gimli and his followers off. There are about three hundred of them all told – the six Ereborean dwarves, who have kept to themselves over the winter and never explained why they want to leave all dwarven society behind; Gimli, of course, looking anxious and eager at the thought of _finally_ being able to spend years at a time with his beloved; and a small horde of dwobbits saying tearful farewells to their families, to the mothers and fathers and younger siblings they are leaving behind.

Laney hugs her father and her mother and her little brothers, promising to write to them; and then she goes over and hugs Thrain and Bissem tightly, the three of them propping each other up against the wind.

“I’ll miss you both,” she says into their snug huddle. “Write to me, tell me what’s new in Belegost, make awful jokes, I don’t care.”

“I’ll send you beads,” Thrain promises. “I’ll tell you everything that happens.”

“I’ll tell you how the family does,” Bissem adds. “Every apprenticeship and journeyman piece and naming day, I’ll tell you about it.”

She grins a little. “And I’ll tell you about the new city, and dealing with elves, and what it’s like so far south, and living near Men. Who knows? Maybe I’ll turn horse-lord and go galloping off across the fields.”

Thrain cannot help laughing along with her, and the laughter helps keep the tears back, for which he is grateful.

“I cannot see you on a horse,” Bissem say merrily, “but if you do – write to us and tell us about it!”

“I will,” Laney promises, and hugs them both a little closer, and turns away. She has a place with the very first wagon, near the front of the caravan – a place of honor – and Thrain and Bissem watch her join the other dwobbits and carefully do not look at each other as they swipe tears from their eyes.

Finally the goodbyes are over, and Gimli, at the front of the caravan, raises a sturdy arm. “Move out!” he cries, and the wagon-drivers tap the reins on the backs of the sturdy ponies, and the caravan begins to roll.

Thrain and Bissem watch it until it is entirely out of sight, trundling east towards the main road which will take it south all the way to the White Mountains.

Thorin watches his great-nephew from the entrance to the mountain. He has never thought about how it must have felt for those who remained in Erebor to see their siblings, children, cousins march away across the Misty Mountains to an uncertain future; and now that he sees Thrain’s grief, he thinks perhaps he has misjudged some of those who stayed behind.

Bilbo leans against Thorin comfortingly. “They’ll write each other,” he says quietly. “And who knows – between us and Fili, maybe we’ll get a whole line of mirror-towers going up and down the Mistys.”

“That is not a bad idea,” Thorin says thoughtfully. “I will speak to Inurr about making more mirrors. Perhaps they could go past Rivendell; and who knows? Theoden of Rohan might care for a branch, and so might Aragorn. I shall send ravens out when I have spoken to Inurr, if he says he thinks it’s possible.”

Bilbo nods and tucks himself closer to Thorin. The wind is brisk and biting, though the trees have begun to bud. “I’ve made all of Thrain’s favorites for dinner,” he offers after a while. “Poor lad.”

“Poor lad, indeed,” Thorin sighs. “Well, he’s a strong boy, and Bissem is his good right arm. They’ll be alright.”

“That they will,” Bilbo agrees. “We shall make sure of it.”

*

Thrain is melancholy for some months – no one blames him, and certainly many in Belegost are feeling the loss of so many dwobbits, though many more have made it clear that they have no intention of ever leaving the mountains where they were born.

Belegost feels emptier without Laney around, but it is not empty – there are still hundred and hundred of happy dwobbits, and their dwarven and hobbit parents, bustling through the halls; and if there are three hundred fewer dwobbits than there were a few weeks ago, it is not immediately obvious upon looking. Most of the dwobbits, indeed, are perfectly content in Belegost, and Thrain cannot help a little bitterness when he looks at them and thinks of Laney, who could not stay.

But it is not in Thrain to brood, and the first letter from Laney – a brief but happy description of the area they have chosen to build on, and the hectic bustle of trying to build houses and dig tunnels from scratch, while watching Gimli’s adorable fluster as he waits for his elf – brings the smile back to Thrain’s face. Thorin is relieved – Thrain moping is unnatural, and also makes Thorin want to do ridiculous things to make his great-nephew happy, and kings should not do ridiculous things.

By the time winter comes around again, though, Thrain has begun following a pretty young dwobbit lady around with a besotted expression on his face, and making things to please her which he never quite gets around to giving her, and Thorin smiles at their flirting and does not object in the slightest. It isn’t love, he doesn’t think – not the bone-deep, all-devouring love which dwarves can be consumed by – but it’s healthy for a lad to have a few experiences with strong affection before he finds his true love. And, indeed, Thrain moons over his dwobbit lass for several months and then, rather abruptly, snaps out of it, and goes back to spending all his time with Bissem or Thorin or wandering the halls of Belegost. Thorin carefully says nothing about any of this: young lads do not care for their old, married, boring great-uncles to try to give them advice.

(Thorin _does_ ask Dwalin to pull Thrain aside and have a bit of a chat with him. Dwalin is surprisingly subtle for such an…impressively accoutered person, and Thorin rather suspects that Dwalin used tales of Thorin’s own youthful exploits to make sure that Thrain won’t think of doing anything foolish in his infatuation. Thorin isn’t entirely proud of his actions in his youth, back when he was trying to get _any_ reaction from his father, who had retreated entirely in his own gloomy thoughts, but they make good scare-tactics, he supposes. Bilbo, when Thorin mentions this, just laughs and laughs and laughs.)

*

“Uncle,” says Frodo nervously, “how do you know if you love someone?” He keeps the question as deliberately vague as he can, but Bilbo fixes him with a knowing look and raises an eyebrow.

“Are we speaking of Samwise or of Rosie?” he inquires.

Frodo sags back in his chair. “Um. Well…both,” he admits. “Is that even _allowed_?”

Bilbo stands and pulls Frodo out of his chair and into a hug. “ _Allowed_ doesn’t enter into it, my lad. If you love them, and they love you, then hold to that – once you’re old enough! – and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And if someone tries, you may threaten them with your old uncle. I can still hold a sword, you know!”

Frodo giggles, rather damply, into Bilbo’s shoulder. “You’re not _that_ old, Uncle,” he says, a bit muffled. “And I haven’t talked to either of them yet. We’re too young to think of marriage, I know that. It’s still six years til my majority. But I can’t imagine going through life without both of them beside me.”

“Then you shall not,” Bilbo says comfortingly. “I dare say they love you too, lad; so just hang in there until you are all adults, and then I should think that everything will work out one way or another. Don’t you fret, my lad; everything will work out just as it should.” 

Frodo nods and clings tightly to his uncle, face pressed firmly against Bilbo’s shoulder, and Bilbo holds him and thinks back many years to a hobbit married outside his race, living outside the Shire, who dared to speak of love and had it wholly and wonderfully returned.


	20. Thirty-Three and Eleventy-One

While Frodo’s eleventh and twenty-second birthday parties were small affairs, meant only for family and close friends, his thirty-third birthday party, combined with Bilbo’s hundred-and-eleventh, bids fair to be the social event of the decade. Everyone who is anyone in the Shire has been invited: all the Thains and their immediate families, all the Gamgees and the Cottons and the entire Baggins clan and anyone else who could beg, borrow, or wheedle an invitation. The great hall of Belegost is set up for the party, since of course all of Belegost is invited – more to their Prince’s hundred-and-eleventh than to Frodo’s majority, but it all works out to a truly massive party.

Frodo is excited, of course; one’s majority is a big deal anyhow, and when it also marks one’s inheritance of the Baggins Thainship and of Bag End, it’s…well…something. Frodo is looking forward to moving into Bag End, to taking up his duties and helping to make the Baggins lands as peaceful and well-fed as they can possibly be; but he must admit that he’s a little sad to be leaving Belegost and Bilbo. The mountain has never quite been home to him in the way Bag End has always been, but it is a home, and one he has shared with his uncles and his adoptive big brother for so many years that it’s hard to think that the next time he sets foot in Belegost it will be as an honored guest, an envoy of the Shire, and not as Bilbo’s ward.

The party is _magnificent_. Bombur goes all-out: the Royal Kitchens are busy for days turning out enough food to feed an immense crowd of hobbits (plus all of Belegost) in a manner fit for the majesty of a dwarven kingdom, and the result includes several oxen roasted whole and a cake taller than Thorin with one hundred and forty-four candles on its tiers, in five flavors just to make sure everyone gets something they like. Frodo is frankly a little embarrassed by it, but Bombur is determined that Belegost will not disgrace its Prince by providing too little food, and that is the end of it.

There is dancing, and there are three full kegs of hobbit moonshine – which all the dwarves of Belegost avoid studiously – and there are songs and laughter and there is _so much food_ it’s a little terrifying, and Frodo sits between Sam and Rosie and basks in the warmth of so many people having so much fun.

*

As the party begins to wind down – well, as the dwarves begin to flag and the hobbits begin settle into sitting around drinking instead of dancing – Sam goes down to speak with his father, and Rosie pulls Frodo gently aside.

“I know it’s not the best time,” she says apologetically, “but it’s hard to get you by yourself, without Sam there.”

“What do you need, then, that you don’t want Sam to hear?” Frodo asks curiously: he’s assuming it’s something to do with Sam’s own upcoming thirty-third birthday.

“He’ll never be able to choose between us, you know,” she says softly. “He loves us both; any fool can see it.”

“He loves _you_ ,” Frodo says. “You’ll have beautiful children.”

Rosie cuffs him gently upside the head. “He loves us both, you fool. Our Samwise has a heart large enough for two. And I’m quite fond of you, Frodo Baggins, and I think you’re quite fond of me.”

“You’re my best friend, besides Sam anyhow,” Frodo says, and blushes at giving what could be taken as an insult.

“And you’re my best friend, besides Sam,” Rosie agrees. “And your Bag End is going to be a lonely place without anyone to share it with; but the three of us could fill it well enough, I think.”

Frodo gapes. “Could we _do_ that?” he asks incredulously.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Rosie says, “though it’s rare enough. One of the Took lasses took two husbands, years and years ago; and there was a Boffins fellow with two wives, half an Age back. And Sam and I’d be missing a piece without you, and I shan’t ask him to make such a sacrifice – not when there’s a solution so easy come by.” She flushes a little, and glances down at her feet. “And there’d be a Baggins heir to follow you.”

Frodo’s ears are bright red, and he thinks that if he _could_ simply combust out of embarrassment, he probably would, but what Rosie says makes sense, and as he tries to imagine it, his mental picture is not unpleasant in the slightest. Rather the contrary: Rosie and Sam with him always, and half a dozen fauntlings running about in Bag End, would be a perfect future as far as Frodo is concerned.

“You haven’t asked Sam about this yet, have you,” he says after a moment.

Rosie shakes her head. “I wanted you to agree, first: you know he’d think he’s not good enough for the Baggins Thain. Gamgee modesty, _fah_. He’s good enough for anyone.”

“Anyone at all,” Frodo agrees instantly. “The question is, are we good enough for _him_?”

Rosie grins at him. “Between the two of us, I think we rather are.”

“Then as long as he agrees…” Frodo says, and smiles broadly. “As long as Sam agrees, I would be glad to make a family with you.”

They are still grinning foolishly at each other when Sam comes back from his conversation, and looks from Frodo to Rosie with an expression of mild confusion.

“And what have you two been talking about, that you look like cats in cream, then?”

“Um,” says Frodo a little awkwardly, but Rosie just grins and leans against Sam’s shoulder comfortably.

“This and that,” she says. “We’ll tell you later tonight, after the party is done.”

“Fair enough,” Sam replies amiably, and hauls them both off to talk to his father and Bilbo about the gardens at Bag End.

*

Frodo can’t really help the stupid grin on his face as he goes off to bed that night, lips still warm from two sets of kisses. Bilbo gives him some odd looks as they walk back to the Royal Apartments, but Frodo can’t bring himself to care. Rosie’s brilliant idea went over _wonderfully_ when they described it to Sam, and the expression of astonished delight on Sam’s face will stay with Frodo forever.

In the coming spring, Frodo will move in to Bag End and become official Thain of Baggins, responsible for every hobbit in the Baggins lands; but his new job will be lighter and easier than it might have been, with Rosie and Sam beside him.


	21. Half-Empty Nest

Eleventy-one is an age most hobbits never see; certainly they are not so spry as Bilbo as they do. His hair is entirely silver, and there are more lines in his face than there were once, but he can still dance a jig as well as any hobbit, and wander the halls of Belegost all day without stopping, save for meals. Someday soon, he rather thinks, eleventy-one will be a commonplace age in Belegost, with all the bright young hobbit lasses who bound their lives to sturdy dwarves; but for just now, he is the oldest hobbit in Belegost, and one of the oldest in the Shire. He has great hopes of beating his grandfather Gerontius, the oldest hobbit on record, to the age of a hundred and thirty, but really any years he spends beside his husband are good ones.

The birthday party is quite nice, and Bilbo dances with friends and family, and coaxes Thorin onto the dance floor for a very brief jig, and eats his own weight in Bombur’s superlative cooking, and takes a turn slicing the impressively enormous cake. And seeing Frodo’s ecstatic joy at learning that both of his beloveds love him back is the best birthday surprise Bilbo can remember – his ward, his all-but-son, will have the family he needs in Bag End, and Bilbo will not have to worry about him quite so much. (Bilbo will still worry about him, because that is what parents _do_ , but at least he will worry less.)

It is hard to see Frodo off in the spring, in a wagon with all of his worldly goods (and a number of presents from the dwobbits of Belegost who have befriended him over the years, not to mention his family). Bilbo and Thorin decided over the winter that it would be easier if they _didn’t_ accompany the lad down to the Shire: Frodo needs to come in as the new Thain, not as the old Thain’s ward. But it is hard to watch him leave, just Frodo and a wagon-driver down the road to the Shire.

Thankfully, Bilbo and Thorin have to go down in the summer to attend Frodo’s wedding, so Bilbo only has a few months to fret over his nephew. The wedding is a thing of beauty, if rather a strange one – Thorin, especially, is astonished at the idea of three people marrying each other, and Bilbo is under the impression that there was a short and rather heated argument about whose name Rosie was going to take. (Samwise’s, apparently. Fair enough.) Still, Thain Took is glad to officiate, and Bilbo stands at the front as an honored guest and claps until his hands hurt and cries into the spare handkerchiefs which Thorin thankfully thought to bring, and tries not to squeak when Dis hugs him too hard.

Young Thrain, who has not spent much time in the Shire, comes down for his _nadadith_ ’s wedding, of course, and has a great deal of fun wandering about with Frodo and Sam and Rosie and Bissem and poking his nose into everything. Bag End is full of noise and life for a few days while they are all there; and when Bilbo and Thorin and Thrain leave, there are still three people in Bag End, enough to fill it with laughter and love as it ought to be filled.

*

Thorin is not quite sure how to approach the idea that Frodo is going to be marrying _two_ other hobbits. Oh, Samwise and Rosie are lovely young things, and they all clearly adore each other; it’s just that dwarves don’t, _can’t_ do such things. Thorin tries to imagine loving someone else as much as he loves Bilbo, and in the same way, and comes up completely blank. Dwarves _can_ love many people, but not as partners, not as lovers. Thorin dotes on Dis, but she’s his sister; and he has a strong friendship with Dwalin, but friendship is all it can ever be, and even when they were young and foolish, neither of them ever thought that they were in love with each other. He has nothing but fond feelings for Fili and Kili and the small horde of dwobbits Kili has sired, but they are family, after all. And of course he adores young Thrain, but Thrain is his ward, the closest thing he will ever have to a son. That is different.

But to love two people as much as he loves Bilbo? To wish to braid beads into two people’s hair, to adorn two people with the metal proof of his love, to worry over and dote upon and lust after two people as much as he does Bilbo? It is impossible. Dwarves can’t _do_ that.

Still, Thorin can be happy for Frodo, who looks as though all his dreams have come true, and he can be happy for Samwise and Rosie, who likewise look utterly joyful, and he can be happy for Bilbo, whose nephew will have the love he needs to support him; so Thorin supposes he doesn’t actually need to _understand_ how loving two people works, so long as he can stand in the audience and hand Bilbo handkerchiefs and clap until even his callused palms ache.

It _is_ a nice ceremony, come to think of it, though Thain Took is having a little too much fun – trust a Took to enjoy tweaking everyone’s notions of propriety while also making people happy.

Spending a few days in Bag End is also pleasant – there is nothing for Thorin to do in Bag End but eat Rosie’s wonderful cooking and sit outside and smoke with Bilbo and Dis, and the King of Belegost does not often get this sort of vacation. It’s fun to watch Thrain and Bissem run about with the hobbits and get into everything, and it’s good for Thrain to know more about the Shire anyhow, and Balin of course has Belegost under control; and if anything comes up there are the mirror-towers for quick communication.

*

It’s odd being in Belegost without Frodo, after nearly thirty years of his presence. Oh, the Royal Apartments aren’t _empty_ by any means – young Thrain is still there, after all, and will be for many years to come (Bilbo hasn’t quite adjusted to the long maturing period of dwarves: young Thrain _looks_ like an adult, but has another eighteen years to go until he becomes one); Dis and Balin and Dwalin and Ori drop by at all hours to gossip and mock each other; Kili and Primrose and their growing brood come up every few years and spend several months wreaking havoc on the carefully laid out schedules of the court.

But Bilbo’s life has been focused on Frodo for so many years now that it’s a little hard to remember what he used to do before he adopted a child. Wander through Belegost talking to people and fixing small problems: yes, that is still a good thing to do. Spend hours with Dori and Bombur discussing upcoming holidays and important events: yes, certainly. Spend further hours with Dis, sometimes practicing weaponswork, sometimes just talking: yes, that is something Bilbo has missed, and is glad to reclaim.

Bilbo has been careful, of course, never to neglect his duties as Prince of Belegost, even while he was spending every summer down in the Shire as Thain Baggins; and it’s a relief, now, to be able to put down half of his burden. He never thought that _just_ being the Prince Consort would be easy, but it’s certainly easier than being Prince Consort _and_ Thain Baggins, and raising a fauntling besides.

Most importantly of all, the sudden reduction in his duties means that Bilbo has more time – glorious, wonderful time – to spend with Thorin. They have not been neglecting each other by any means – nothing in the world could get them to do that – but having two relatively young children in the household has meant that the amount of time available to just…be with each other, talking and laughing, braiding each others’ hair, sitting in companionable silence and watching the fire, has been at a premium. Now that young Thrain is old enough to be out on his own without causing Thorin to worry, and Frodo is down in the Shire doing what Bilbo has heard is quite a creditable job as Thain Baggins, there is time for all the things Thorin and Bilbo have missed doing together.

So Bilbo, who is after all a sensible fellow – occasional bouts of heroism notwithstanding – enjoys to the fullest every chance to spend time with his husband, tucked up against Thorin’s broad chest with Bilbo’s hair tangling in Thorin’s beard and their beads clicking gently against each other, and Thorin’s deep voice rumbling comfortingly as they talk. And Bilbo is entirely content.


	22. Three's Company

Rosie loves her boys dearly. It would, she supposes, be relatively easy to be jealous of one or the other for the calm affection and boundless loyalty between them; but Rosie Cotton – now Gamgee – is not the jealous sort. She loves her boys, and is glad to see them together, is honored to witness their love for each other.

Also they are remarkably attractive together.

And it is not as though Rosie ever feels left out – not with Sam so unquestionably devoted to her, and Frodo so sweetly determined to be worthy of both of them. Truthfully, when they are both focused on her, it can be a little overwhelming: Sam so eager to do everything right, and Frodo so worried that he will do something wrong. She is sure, in time, they will both calm down a bit, grow accustomed to each other and to their unusual relationship, but they are still very newly married – barely four months now since they stood together in front of Bilbo and the Took Thain and made their vows – and her boys are still a little nervous. So it’s rather nice, now and again, to sit back and watch them please each other, and just enjoy the view.

They are a study in physical contrast: wiry, dark-haired Frodo and burly, fair-haired Sam. But both are clever and kind and very much in love, and stubborn about it; there are more similarities between the Thain of Baggins and his gardener than anyone outside their relationship would believe. Rosie likes the way they look beside each other: Sam’s broad, tanned hand against Frodo’s pale hip, Frodo’s tidy nails digging into Sam’s shoulders, and both of them so focused on each other that a dragon could land in the Shire without distracting them.

It’s kind of nice, really, for Rosie to just be able to sit back and watch. Just now, her boys are kissing, long and slow; Sam never likes to rush into things, and it’s a long warm summer evening with nothing else to do but enjoy each other, so why not take their time?

Frodo is on his back in the middle of the bed with Sam’s weight pinning him comfortably down; Rosie has staked out a corner of the vast bed off to one side, where she has a good view. The bed was a gift from King Thorin – Frodo blushed for hours – and Rosie is very grateful for it. There’s plenty of room for the three of them to stretch out and roll around, and when they have children, someday, they will have room for the fauntlings to join them after nightmares. (Rosie likes to plan ahead for all eventualities.)

*

Sam has always been a little bit of a dreamer, as much as a Gamgee and a gardener can be; he likes stories about heroes and quests, dragons and orcs and mighty warriors, and sometimes he dreams that he could be a hero, too, if there was ever an opportunity. But even in his wildest, most fantastical dreams, he never dared to hope that he would find himself here, kissing one of his beloveds while the other one looks on contentedly.

He’s not bookish and clever like Frodo is, or quick and driven like Rosie; when he knew, years ago, that he loved them each as much as the other, all he could think of to do was put that into the back of his mind and go out into the garden whenever it grew to be too much. Frodo is the Thain Baggins, after all – Sam’s always known his friend would need an heir, to keep the Thainship from being contested. And Rosie has always deserved more than a gardener’s son, though Sam would have done his best to support her as she ought to be supported. Sam has always figured that Frodo and Rosie might marry, or that Frodo would fall in love with some bright-eyed hobbit lass and Rosie might consent to marry Sam, and they could live one pair in the big smial and one in the small, and let their children play together in the gardens.

But Rosie is stubborn, and Frodo is kind, and somehow between the two of them they came to this solution, and Sam is richer than he has ever dreamed of being, in the love of his beloveds, the only riches he has ever cared about other than the rich green of his gardens.

Trust Rosie to come up with this mad scheme – Rosie, who has never been willing to accept ‘it’s not done’ as an answer. And trust Frodo to go along with it – Frodo, who wants to make everyone else happy, and would give up everything for his people, and yet wants so badly to have a family of his own.

And trust Sam to go along with both of them, because they’re only handing him everything he has ever wanted on a platter. Like Frodo, spread out beneath him, pale skin against pale sheets and blue eyes black with arousal, lips red from Sam’s kisses, grinning up at Sam with nothing but love in his gaze. Like Rosie, sitting there on the corner of the bed, watching them both with a hand down between her legs and a bright smile on her lovely face, looking like a vision out of a dream.

Someday, maybe soon, there will be fauntlings running through the halls of Bag End, some with Frodo’s dark curls and some with Sam and Rosie’s blond, and that will be a fine day; but for now, Sam has both of his beloveds in bed with him, and it is a good day indeed.

*

Frodo misses Belegost sometimes, misses Bilbo and Thorin and Thrain, the familiar halls and the bearded dwarves and dwobbits; but it is a faint nostalgia, no more. He is in Bag End, which he has always felt was home, and he has both his beloveds there with him. Rosie has entirely taken over the kitchen, bustling about half the day and coming out flour-dusted and smiling; and Sam has taken over the gardens, and comes in in the evening with smudges of dirt on his face and a broad grin; and Frodo spends his days walking among his people or studying the history and genealogy of the Shire, and comes to dinner dusty from roads or old books, and eager to see his Sam and Rosie again.

Frodo’s always wanted a big family, and while he adores his Uncles and his _nadad_ , there was always never any chance that the family in Belegost was going to get bigger. But now there is Sam and Rosie, and the possibility – the near certainty – of fauntlings in the future, and Bag End will be full of noise and laughter and the pounding of tiny furry feet. Frodo can hardly wait.

And in the meantime, before there are fauntlings, there is this: Sam warm and comfortable atop him, and Rosie off to one side with a broad smile on her face, and kisses that go on forever. Learning the two of them has been a glory and a delight. Broad-shouldered, sturdy Sam, tanned from years in the garden, with sun-stripes in his hair and a grin forever in his eyes; and plump, pretty Rosie, curvaceous and broad-hipped, with clever hands and neatly-coiffed feet and a quick laugh always at the ready. They are both beautiful in Frodo’s eyes, though Sam laughs and tells Frodo to stop teasing whenever Frodo mentions it, and Rosie tweaks his nose and tells him he’s an inveterate flatterer.

But they _are_ beautiful, his Sam and Rosie, blond and blue-eyed and properly round as hobbits should be, sturdy and stubborn and loving as the deep earth. Beautiful in their laughter and in their sleep and in their rare moments of anger; beautiful when they haul him out of his study and demand he come to dinner on time; beautiful when Sam brings him flowers from the garden and Rosie makes his favorite scones for no reason but love. Beautiful when they kiss each other, and when they kiss Frodo, and when they simply lie all curled about each other in a warm heap of weary happiness.

Frodo is happy, here in his huge bed with the two people he loves more than anything else in the world, his beautiful Sam and Rosie. What more could he desire?

So he tucks himself even more firmly into Sam’s embrace, and smiles into the kisses, and lets himself bask in warmth and family and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end of In The Way They Should Go. There will be another long story in the C&C 'verse - and I mean _long_ , I think it's going to be at least sixty chapters, I'm kind of terrified - and I will most likely start posting it on Dec. 18th.
> 
> Thank you all for your kudos and comments: they keep me going, and make my day every day.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my Best Beloved, the best beta a woman could want, who makes my stories immeasurably better and puts up with me bouncing ideas off of him.

**Author's Note:**

> I am messing with canonical birthdates, so that various characters can be closer in age.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Snowforts and Hobbit-holes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1217002) by [Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw)




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